


Crash Course

by paperstorms



Series: Felix Culpa [1]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Being not-very-good for each other, Canon Compliant, M/M, Painful Feelings, Post-Prison, Rafe & Sam, Smut, They look good together, both of these boys are terrible with feelings, but damn, fuzzy feelings but also, it's got like motorbikes and new york and lots and lots of feelings, long fic, obviously, otp: Maybe You Need Him, safe, sam x rafe, set in the two years you know what i'm talking about, uncharted 4 spoilers, with slow to medium burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-10 22:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7864786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperstorms/pseuds/paperstorms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the other side of those prison gates, Rafe is the only thing Sam really recognises anymore. He doesn't know how to cope with being back in the world, but Rafe needs him, so for now that's enough - but how long can it possibly last before it all comes crashing down?</p><p>Set after Sam gets out of prison, in the two years before the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for this chapter: masturbation, Sam's dirty mind
> 
> Thank you to Morgan (thevaultmessiah) and Bee (zer0tucker) for beta reading the crap out of this piece of trash.

Walking through Rafe Adler’s house is strange. It’s not uncomfortable, but Sam isn’t sure how he’d put it into words. He’s been away for such a long time, he imagines this must be what a sailor feels like coming home after months at sea. Except that he’s never been inside this house before, so it’s not like coming home, not really. It’s not expected to be either. He drifts from room to room trailing behind his host as he gets the basic tour of the facilities; as he’s told to go where he wants, use what he wants. As a guest.

Sam’s never been a guest anywhere in his life. 

It’s a nice place. Huge, bordering on ridiculous. Just what he’d expect from Rafe, all white walls and mood lighting, accentuated with antique furniture and expensive art Sam doesn’t understand. The bookshelves and surfaces are lined with first editions and exotic artifacts he’s collected or bought. The couch smells like real leather. The kitchen has a chandelier. None of it surprises Sam, and he takes close to none of it in.

Every sound reverberates in his head like a bass drum, his vision spinning slightly. He might have to steady himself against the wall if they walk much further, because every one of his senses is over-stimulated and he thinks he might be sick. Thirteen years he’s dreamt about his freedom. About being back out in the world. But now Sam doesn’t recognise anything he sees and he’ll admit to himself that it’s scaring him somewhat. Everything has moved on and left him behind. He’s waiting for the hidden cameras, for someone to tell him it’s all a joke. 

“Here, I’ve set you up in this one,” Rafe says, pushing a door open at last. Sam isn’t really listening, but he is paying enough attention to see that pointed look on Rafe’s face, and despite the years gone by Sam still knows him well enough to know that sympathetic look is a mask, hiding his frustration. “Is everything alright, Samuel?”

God, but he is older. Sam studies the lines on Rafe’s face for a moment, his strong jaw, the draw of his brow. Rafe has grown up a lot. It suits him, he’s a very handsome man.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, and clears his throat. There’s a lot he could say; that he feels like he’s about to collapse. That he wishes his brother were here. That nothing feels real. But how does he begin to say any of that? Rafe doesn’t care about any of those things, he’s not that sort of person. Sam settles on the only thing that comes to mind. “Sorry.”

Rafe sniffs in amusement and waves a hand dismissively. “If there’s anything you need,” he says, making a point of making eye contact. His expressions are just the same as ever. “Just let me know. Okay?” 

“Sure.”

Sam takes the beat of pause as an invitation into the room and he passes Rafe as he enters, looking anywhere but at him. It’s the biggest bedroom he’s ever been offered to sleep in, and he’s sure it’s comfortable. It’s got a private en-suite, a balcony, and a flat television. He stops, looks around for a few moments in silence, and with the little energy he’s got left he musters a contended smile as he turns back to his host. “This’ll do me just fine.”

“I’m glad,” Rafe nods, still hovering in the doorway. He sounds genuine, but Sam’s sure he’s itching to get to work. It’s late in the day already, and all Rafe’s spoken of since their reunion is Avery. He doesn’t mind. At least it’s a familiar topic. At least no one is asking him what prison was like.

A moment passes, and another.

The silence that falls over them isn’t awkward, but it is empty. Like they’ve both got too much to say, so much that they can’t find any words at all.

“I…” Sam starts, bristling his hand through his shaggy hair. He knows Rafe, but it’s still a little like looking at a stranger. Thirteen years is a long time. “Think I’m gonna take a shower.”

Rafe’s expression deflates, as though he wants to say something else. “Alright. Let me know if you need anything.”

Sam’s more than relieved to be left alone at last. 

 

He sits on the end of the king-size bed and drops his bag to the floor, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion. Mental and physical; the flight from Panama City was only five hours, but it feels like a hundred years have passed since he stepped out of the prison gates onto the tarmac to meet Rafe. Yet at the same time he’s afraid to blink, in case he wakes up, still behind bars. There’s no way any of this is real.

But it is. It has to be. He’s waited long enough for it.

Kicking off his shoes, Sam forces himself up before he falls asleep where he’s sat. He leaves a trail of clothing to the shower and it’s so much like being in an expensive hotel, he’s actually surprised not to find a display of miniature toiletries by the sink.

The water is heavenly. He cranks it up as hot as he can stand it and turns his face up into the spray, letting it run over him, ease his aches and pains. Cleanse him. He’s alone and he could let it all out now if he wanted to, but he doesn’t yet - he’s afraid. If he lets his emotions catch up with him, he might not be able to stop. He swallows them again and relishes the heat instead, imagining it rinsing away his past. If he could, would he?

He doesn’t think so. There’s too much history there, too many happy memories from before Panama. If the memory of prison is what he has to endure to preserve the memories of him and his brother, he’ll take them as they come.

He stands like that for a long time, just reveling in the feel of the water hitting his skin. Back then, the shower had been the only time he could catch a moment alone. He’d spend so much time with Nathan that privacy was a commodity, and Sam would sink into the water at whatever motel they were staying in and take a little time for himself to relieve the day’s tensions. But not a single one of the showers at the prison had been private, nor that they boasted hot water. Between the warmth and the pressure, this might be the best shower he’s ever taken. And he can take as long as he wants.

He’s got nowhere to be. No time limit.

No one watching him.

He’s only human – and alone. He can’t resist his eyes closing, and Sam finds himself sliding his hand down to his crotch, giving himself a gentle squeeze. His touches are innocent enough at first, fleeting and soft, enjoying the secluded space where he knows he’s safe to do as he likes. 

It’s been so many years since he’s been able to touch himself like this, he almost feels foolish, like he’s a teenager again. But soon enough his breath comes more raggedly, his palm closing around his cock as he finds himself quickly aroused; he leans heavily against the shower cubicle, forehead pressed to the cool glass as he tries to find something for his imagination to settle on besides the feel of his own touch.

He tries to picture old girlfriends, encounters from his youth, but it feels wrong. They were all so young back then; he can’t even picture their faces now. What would they look like after all this time? Where have their lives taken them? It’s nowhere his mind wants to go at a time like this. God knows he doesn’t want to think about any of his encounters inside those prison walls either. Not now. Anything but that.

His mind probes for something, anything to fixate on, a memory or a fantasy to carry him to completion. A shiver runs down Sam’s spine as the thought of Rafe enters his mind; the kid who used to look at him like the stars were in his eyes when he spoke. Except he’s not a kid anymore and the years have been very good to him.

Sam thought about fucking him once or twice back then, but the idea was too ridiculous to entertain. Their twenty-year-old benefactor was too innocent, too important, and too powerful to mess around with like that back then. But now – a groan spills from Sam’s lips, lost to the sound of the water as he thinks about how handsome Rafe has grown up to be, all broad shoulders and muscle and jawline. He’s got a face that’s begging to be abused, and it feels so deliciously wrong to picture him on his knees, abandoning all that control he so desperately clings to.

He imagines Rafe stepping into the shower with him, their hands desperately all over one another, his back against the cold tiles and Rafe’s dark hair falling straight under the spray. The water cascades over their bodies as their lips and teeth clash hungrily, wild animals going in for the kill. Rafe’s smirking as he trails his hands up Sam’s sides, down to his ass, squeezing it as he pulls him closer, and the smell of his cologne fills Sam’s senses as he tastes the skin of his neck, his shoulders. Anything he can reach. The fantasy takes him over all at once - Sam savors every detail, and he swears he can feel Rafe’s breath against his skin.

The younger man sinks to his knees, and he’s still smirking up at him like he’s somehow got the upper hand, like he’s in charge.

“Mmmm, look at you. I bet you're not used to not being the one on your knees anymore, are you Sam?”

That stupid, smart mouth. He vividly remembers how desperately he wanted to shut him up sometimes. Even in his fantasy, Rafe’s perverse and frustrating and fighting him for control. He runs his fingers through Rafe’s hair, tugging at it to bring his face close to his cock, pressing himself against Rafe’s lips until they part.

"Shut up and suck it, asshole."

Rafe doesn’t fight it, swallows him down with practiced ease and all Sam can think is that finally, finally he’s quiet and obedient; he starts slowly, lavishing Sam with his tongue, the heat of his mouth matching the burning in Sam’s groin, until Sam can’t take it, fisting his hair and holding him where he wants him.

He gasps for breath as he strokes himself faster, imagining it’s Rafe’s mouth he’s fucking instead of his hand. Those big blue and brown eyes staring up at him, hooded with lust as he forces him to take it deeper, choking him; fuck, Rafe would look so beautiful like that. Sam stutters out a cry as he comes suddenly against the glass, thighs tensing and back arching like a bow, his palm still moving erratically around his cock as he rides out the unexpected orgasm.

Breathing in heavy, unsteady pants, he slumps against the glass.

Ah, fuck. Didn’t take much.

The shower rinses away the sweat as it soaks out of his skin as he trembles slightly, gasping for air in the steam-filled cubicle. He can still see Rafe on his knees, licking his lips clean and looking up at Sam like he’s waiting for more.

The guilt sets in as soon as the pleasure subsides. He’s only been here an hour and he’s already dirtying the whole experience. But he won’t let it get to him – no, he deserves this; he’s alone after so long, and he’s a grown man. What he fantasizes about is no one else’s business. And what else is he supposed to think about? It’s not like Sam kept many friends to begin with, but beside his brother, Rafe’s pretty much the only person he really knows anymore.

In fact, until he finds Nathan and reconnects with him, Rafe is the only person he knows.

The thought hits Sam hard and he whimpers slightly, something tightening in his stomach. The feeling almost buckles him and he ends up sliding down the shower wall until he’s sat beneath the spray, held down by the weight of his revelation. He wraps his arms around his knees and rests his head on them, taking slow breaths in and out and trying not to let the feeling overwhelm him. It was never going to be easy, Sam knows that. But what is left for him now? The life he knew is all in the very distant past. From the moment he left those prison grounds, he didn’t recognize the world he’d stepped into.

He’ll find Nathan and they’ll figure it out. But for now, he’s alone to pick up the pieces. So be it.

He can’t say how long sits there, but it’s long enough that his skin begins to wrinkle under the water. When he gets up, he grabs the soap and lathers it all over himself, over his skin and through his hair, and only rinses off once he feels as clean as he can be. 

 

When he finally steps out of the shower, the cool air hits him and it’s like being brought back to life. He scrubs himself dry with the towel folded on the counter – _just _like a hotel – and it’s so stupidly soft Sam feels like he’s drying himself with a cloud. He actually takes a moment to look, why not, and the label says it’s made of Egyptian cotton and bamboo. Only the best for Rafe Adler, he thinks as he wraps it around his waist. At least some things never change.__

__But some do. Sam stops dead as he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, sighing as he takes the time to really look at himself. Now that he’s clean, he can really see the dark circles beneath his eyes, the heavy creases in their corners. He’s got so many lines on his face that it feels like looking at a stranger._ _

__He never expected a miraculous change, to step back into the real world and look like the man he’d been a decade before, but he’d expected – something. Not to look so much like the world has dragged him through the dirt._ _

__There’s nothing about his reflection that he likes. His hair’s starting to recede, the length of it is only slightly forgiving; he’s thinner than he remembers being, his skin more gaunt around his cheeks and jaw, littered with scars. Two decades of smoking hasn’t done much for his skin either. He doesn’t regret the tattoo on his neck, he refuses to, but it’s almost mocking him now he’s finally free. Placing a hand over it, Sam smiles at himself in an attempt to look more normal, but it only serves to exaggerate the frown lines._ _

__The further down his body he looks, the less he wants to. The three bullet scars stick out the most, the tissue puckered and malformed. Sam can tell where the poorly done stitches tore out over and over, the pain a burning memory even after all this time. If he never gets shot again, it’ll still be too soon. Wincing, he turns away from the imposter in the mirror._ _

__Can’t change the past. It’s history now, his history, and he can’t erase it. It’s all he has to build on to start over._ _

__“Ah, hell.” His trail of dirty clothes is, unsurprisingly, still dirty. Not that he wants to put that filthy prison uniform back on ever again. He kicks them into a corner as he steps out of the en-suite and back into the guest room, wondering what to do when he sees the neat pile laid out on the bed._ _

__The note reads ‘wasn’t sure what would fit you’. It’s not something he’d expect Rafe to do and he’s almost touched by the gesture._ _

__Out of the selection left for him, only the sweatpants are long enough for Sam to wear. Rafe probably still hates being called short as much as he used to, and Sam makes a note to tease him about it. Old habits die hard. He slings on a t-shirt and moves his bag and the rest of the clothes to the armchair, dubbing them a problem for later on. He doesn’t have the energy to see what relics of his old life are stuffed inside that duffel bag._ _

__There’s nothing better to do, so he pads out of the room barefoot and back into the vast, expansive hallways of Rafe’s Long Island mansion. Why any unmarried man who lived alone would need this much space is beyond Sam, always has been, but it’s a nostalgic reminder that he used to burgle places like this in his youth. Take from the rich, give to himself – and his brother. It was always about Nathan back then._ _

__He can barely recall his way back to the lounge, but revitalized by the shower he gets his bearings fast enough. He wanders back through the house slowly, taking it in a little more, finding artifacts dotted around that really are fascinating. Rafe’s got good taste, and Sam notices how every one of his displays is paired with a handful of literature on the culture it came from; he always had a feeling Rafe cared more about the history behind the treasure than he let on. But something struck him as strange – between the bookshelves and cabinets, he couldn’t find a single book on piracy. Rafe had talked of nothing else on the flight. Sam had indulged him by listening, stayed quiet mostly, slept on and off. It was comforting enough just to be spoken to rather than talked down to or ordered around, and Rafe didn’t seem to mind leading the conversation._ _

__Sam concludes that he must keep his research somewhere else in the huge building, although he still expects to find a shrine to Henry Avery around every corner._ _

__It isn’t until he smells food that he realizes just how hungry he is. And oh god, it smells so good. He couldn’t have cared less what it was – the fact that it doesn’t smell like broiled meat and overcooked rice is enough._ _

__Following the smell, Sam picks his way through the house to the kitchen, and music wafts through the air as he gets closer. Rafe’s stood in the middle over the stove, bobbing his head to the sound as he stirs whatever he’s cooking, completely oblivious to Sam’s presence. He watches him for a while, leaning in the doorway and enjoying the sight; Rafe’s got the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and his manicured hair is starting to come loose after hours of travelling, a few strands hanging down in front of his face. It feels like a rare opportunity to watch him undetected like this, not putting on a show for the company he’s keeping. Sam doesn’t recognize the song, but his companion seems to know it by heart, his lips moving in a silent echo of the fast lyrics, hips swaying slightly to the beat._ _

__Sam starts to feel like a creep, so he clears his throat._ _

__“Didn’t know you could cook, Adler.”_ _

__If Rafe startles, he doesn’t let it show. He turns with the pan in one hand and a spatula in the other, eyebrow raised he sets them down on the kitchen island. “Someone’s got to feed you,” he teases, stirring the pan a few more times. “Figured you might be hungry.”_ _

__He’s as handsome as he was in the fantasy, Sam notes idly. The years have only been good to his sharp face, his blue and brown eyes still wide and piercing and distracting. The mental image of him on his knees flashes through Sam’s mind once more, but he stamps it out quickly, distracting himself with the food._ _

__“You have no idea,” He rasps, leaning over the counter to see what’s cooking. Something with pasta and _greens_. It looks twice as good as it smells. His stomach growls audibly and Rafe laughs and tells Sam to grab a couple of bowls from the cupboard behind him; the mood is so easy. Comfortable. Domestic._ _

__Overwhelming._ _

__He’s grateful for something to do as Rafe asks if he minds serving the food. Sam appreciates not being coddled, being asked what he wants to eat, like he’s some sort of patient recovering. He knows Rafe probably isn’t doing it on purpose; he just not that considerate. He doesn’t think about other people, Sam remembers that much. Still, it’s nice._ _

__“Do you want wine?”_ _

__His silence seems to catch Rafe’s attention, because he turns around from what he’s doing to look at him. It’s been a long time since anyone’s offered Sam a drink. He grins a little as he realizes Rafe is still waiting for his reply. “When have you ever needed to ask me that?”_ _

__A drink is probably exactly what’s needed right now._ _

__Rafe considers his answer for a second and laughs. “Alright, red or white?”_ _

__“Again, Rafe. Really-“_ _

__“Red. I’ve got it.” Rafe plucks two glasses from the shelf and disappears as Sam finishes serving the food, coming back with a bottle of wine that probably cost more than Sam ever made in a month working a real job. Probably vintage, probably older than Rafe, maybe even older than him. He remembers Rafe once telling him that the older a bottle was, the better the flavor. He’d drink anything right now - Sam’s nearly giddy with excitement over getting a little tipsy, ready to wash away the stresses of the strangest day of his life with the warm buzz of alcohol._ _

__

__The night only gets better from there. The food is good, it really is. Not only can Rafe cook, but he can cook damn well. Compared to prison food, Sam supposes he would have appreciated anything, but that doesn’t stop him telling Rafe over and over how delicious a meal it is. Rafe eats up the compliments like kindling, the smile growing on his handsome face the more they talk. It’s easy, talking with him. He’s more mature than he was the last time Sam spoke to him and there’s a lot to catch up on, on Rafe’s side at least._ _

__A couple of glasses of wine loosens both their tongues, and Rafe’s telling stories about the things he’s been up to in Sam’s absence – he hasn’t stopped treasure hunting, not just the Avery haul, but the whole thing. Sam doesn’t mind listening, either. He might not have his much in the way of his own stories, but he’s all ears for Rafe, listening to him recall how he came to possess all of the objects he’s got all over the house, and the debaucherous stories from the black market auctions and negotiations he’s made across the world._ _

__Sam’s pushing aside the little chunks of meat in his food. It’s earning him some questioning looks, but Rafe’s not asking, and he’s grateful for that. It tastes good, but he’s eaten so much meat in the last decade he can barely stomach another bite right now. He‘s full after less than half of his plate but he’s doing his best not to waste it as Rafe catches him up on anything else he can think of._ _

__Anything except Nathan, at least._ _

__“It’s been about two years since that,” Rafe explains; he’s talking about his business, something to do with his father. “Profit has almost doubled in that time. I enjoy the day job, but… I really miss the freedom I had before he handed the reins over.”_ _

__“Freedom. Funny,” Sam quips through a mouthful of food, and for a moment Rafe doesn’t know what he means. Watching the realization dawn on his face is almost entertaining._ _

__“Shit, I didn’t mean… you know what I meant.”_ _

__Sam smiles and shakes his head, taking a moment to drain his glass before he speaks. “I know.”_ _

__He watches Rafe refill their drinks, the question burning in his mind. For all their talking, Rafe hasn’t mentioned his brother once since they were reunited. Sam’s not sure why, but he’s got the feeling he’s not going to like whatever answer he gets. “So,” Sam starts softly, gratefully taking another drink from his glass before he goes on. “Where’s my brother these days?”_ _

__Rafe visibly flinches. For a moment, Sam fears the worst; he’s wasted all these years of his life behind bars, his only family believing him dead when he should have been there, should have been with his brother. Rafe’s going to tell him something terrible – something he couldn’t bear to bring up unprompted – Sam just knows it. He knows Rafe is an honest man, and that look on his face… If something has happened to Nathan, he doesn’t know what he’ll do._ _

__But Rafe composes himself, manages to force a smile. “Not sure,” he says calmly. “But I hear he’s settled down, something like that.”_ _

__Relief._ _

__Except, there’s something else there. Spite? Sam doesn’t know what to think but he’s sure he could cut the tension with a knife. What happened after they escaped? It’s been so long, he doesn’t know how to begin to bring it up. The question is stuck in his throat and suddenly he feels sick, pushing his food away and taking another drink to try and dampen the nauseating sensation. “Good to hear.”_ _

__Rafe’s expression warns him not to pry. Sam watches him as he returns to his food as if there’s no more to say. But there is, there’s so much more behind what Rafe has told him; just when the evening was going so well._ _

__The silence gets worse. Sam starts pushing his leftovers around his plate, trying to string together the words to ask what he needs to know. He’s got so many questions, he doesn’t know where to start. When did they stop looking for him? Why did it take Rafe so long to find him and why… why wasn’t it Nathan at the gate waiting for him when he was finally released? Even if they’ve lost touch, did Rafe not even try to contact him, tell him Sam was alive?_ _

__He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get the words out, he’s cut off by the sound of Rafe’s phone vibrating loudly on the table. Sam falls short, staring at it as the screen flashes._ _

__“I need to take this,” Rafe says, swiping it off the table as he stands up. “Could be a long one. Don’t worry about the dishes, they’ll get done.”_ _

__And then he’s gone._ _

__As he leaves, Sam can’t see the young man he was anymore, Rafe’s expression cold and serious. It stabs at him, a sharp reminder of just how long it’s really been._ _

__He is very suddenly aware of how large the dining room is, with seating room for eight or even ten – he can’t imagine Rafe using it like that often, but he has no idea, he supposes – and a whole wall of floor to ceiling windows looking out into the blackness of the night. Sam stares out into the dark, not making a move. He hears Rafe answer the call, his voice growing distant as he disappears further into the depths of his oversized home._ _

__Suddenly, nothing is comfortable at all._ _

__Sam gets up and takes the dishes out to the kitchen, cleaning up anyway. He takes the rest of the wine with him as he goes back to the guest room, not caring if it’s a thirty or fifty year old vintage anymore – he’s going to drink it straight from the bottle anyway._ _

__

__By the time it’s nearly gone, Sam’s given up trying to work the flatscreen TV. Apparently it’s a ‘Smart’ TV but it doesn’t seem particularly intelligible so he’s left sitting in silence, staring at his duffle bag on the chair. He didn’t want to do this tonight, but what else is he going to do? He opens it on the bed, sitting cross-legged in front of it and pulling out the contents item by item._ _

__After thirteen years, it’s all still there. He can hardly believe it, his mouth going dry as he takes out his old possessions._ _

__Not that there’s much; they’d never intended on having to make a break for it and the only things they’d handed in were those they‘d thought they’d need on the way out. A couple of pieces of clothing, a crumpled pack of Marlboro’s. His denim jacket – he never though he’d see that again. His old lighter is in there too. Sam smiles faintly and flicks it, finding just enough life left in it to spark up a cigarette. He’s going to smoke in the room; Rafe can go screw himself. Using the water glass on the bedside table as an ashtray, he drains the rest of the wine and keeps looking._ _

__It isn’t just his things. Rafe and Nate’s belongings are stuffed in there too, never collected after their bid for freedom. Sam feels his chest tighten as he pulls out an old notebook of Nathan’s, stuffed full of newspaper clippings, receipts, pressed flowers…_ _

__“Loser,” he mumbles with a laugh, his voice breaking a little. He leafs through it, his mouth dry. The chicken scratch handwriting is hard to decipher in places, but it’s full of telltale doodles and it makes his head throb. Sam swallows hard, emotion choking him up. If he had any way of doing so, he’d call Nathan right then and there, but he doesn’t, and he can’t. Instead, he tucks the journal neatly back into the bag with everything else, and hides it under the bed. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Rafe, but… something is going on that he doesn’t know about._ _

__For now, he’s ready to sleep. The wine is sitting heavily in his stomach, and he realizes all too late that he’s drunk. Smoking the last of his cigarette, Sam traipses to the en-suite to relieve himself and then crawls into the bed, his head spinning. He expected so much more from his first day of freedom – hitting the town, maybe a welcoming committee, a gala thrown in his honor. Something like that. Anything like that._ _

__But not this._ _

__He wants Nathan. For lack of any other relief from the dread that settles over him, Sam retrieves one of his brother’s shirts from the bag and puts it on. It’s a little too small, and it doesn’t smell like him at all, musty from years of storage, but he doesn’t care. It’s Nathan’s shirt._ _

__Whatever Rafe is keeping from him, whatever is so bad that his friend can’t even talk to him about his own brother, Sam intends on figuring it out. And when he does, he’s going to find Nate. They’ll find Avery’s treasure together, without Rafe, just like Nathan always wanted._ _

__Because, Sam realizes, he doesn’t know Rafe Adler anymore, not like he used to._ _

__Which means he doesn’t know anyone at all._ _


	2. Chapter 2

“It’s late. What do you want?”

Rafe paces up and down the corridor with his phone pressed to his ear. He hates that he’s left Sam back at the dinner table, especially on such a sore note. Sam had to go and bring up Nate already. Honestly, Rafe had been bracing all night for that conversation because god, there was nothing he wanted to talk about less than Nathan fucking Drake but he was Sam’s baby brother and it was going to get discussed eventually no matter what. Still, he had no real answers to give him. He hadn’t seen the man in twelve years. They’d parted on bad terms. He’d heard stories about him over the years, ridiculous, unbelievable stories, but it’s nothing he wants to discuss with Sam.

“You were supposed to call me this morning,” The South African voice rings through the receiver. It’s soft, but the words carry a harshness that makes Rafe cringe a little. “I tried to call, Rafe. _Three_ times. I couldn’t get hold of you.” 

“Nadine…” He scratches at the back of his head, glancing back towards the dining room. This isn’t going to be a quick call.

“Where the hell were you?”

“On a flight,” He says, moving deeper into the house. Best Sam doesn’t hear this conversation until a few things have been explained to him… he’s already regretting answering, because he’s going to look like a bad host, among other things. “Look, remember I told you about my old partner? The Avery expert?”

“...Drake? What about him?” 

They’ve had this conversation, once or twice. Rafe enjoys working with Nadine Ross – she’s a proven professional. She’s smart, forward thinking, and she’s always got her head in the game and her eye on the prize. But he’s wary of women. Always has been. His mind ticks as he thinks about how few words on the subject he actually has shared with her, or on any subject beyond the treasure itself. Only what he’s had to, really.

“It’s a long story,” he says, unwilling to recount their long and painful history over the phone. “But he’s back on board.”

Rafe awaits her response, standing up straighter, preparing to defend himself. She’s been clear on the subject since the day they started working together, and though he’s confident he can reason with her, Rafe doubts she’ll be any more flexible now.

Her pause is weighted. “I thought we’d talked about this. No one else but you and I, Rafe. What happened to that?”

“Sam is different.”

“He’s... ‘different’. Okay.” She pauses again, not sounding convinced. “Tell me how he’s different.”

Drawing a deep breath, Rafe pictures Sam in his mind. Handsome and tall, witty, and so, so smart… so valuable to him. But none of these things are anything he can say. How does he begin to describe Sam Drake? He sighs, finding a seat in the lounge and working up to his answer. This was going to be a long night.

 

Like most nights, Rafe wakes uncomfortably early. Tonight the clock reads 04:23, which is blissfully better than usual. With a sigh he eyes the mocking red numbers, distorted through the glass of whiskey on his bedside table, which is still glowing with the dregs of the drink that helped him fall asleep at all. No point staying in bed. Not when he knows he’ll only end up staring at the ceiling for hours on end, alone with his thoughts. It’s a big house to be alone in - three floors of winding corridors and rooms he almost never uses. He’s been the only occupant for years, beside his security - he’s never much cared about anyone, but it gets lonely inside those four walls with no one else around.

But no, he isn’t alone. Not tonight. A wave of relief crashes over him as he remembers Sam is down the corridor, that he’s not alone, that Sam is alive at all. The dull ache in his chest settles down, taking comfort in the fact that one of the few people that’s ever meant anything to him is almost close enough to touch.

The feeling dwindles as he remembers the conversation with Nadine just hours ago. How he stumbled over his words explaining why he wanted Sam on board. Sam was vital to the search, but it was more than that.

He’s frustrated. By Nadine, by Sam, the whole fucking situation; how he expected it to be different when he retrieved him from the prison even though he had no reason to do so. Before they’d gone inside they’d been very close, close enough for it to drive Nate mad during all the weeks they’d spent in close quarters making plans. Thick as thieves. He was man enough to admit that he’d been a foolish back then, barely an adult and he’d held Sam in higher esteem than perhaps he should have, gone to lengths to impress him that he wouldn’t entertain for anyone else. But when he’d first seen him outside those prison gates, Rafe had felt that same giddiness like no time had passed at all and he’d… well, he’d expected Sam to be happier to see him too.

Getting out of bed, Rafe can already feel the anger balling up in his chest again. He’d tried to make Nadine understand, told her she only had to meet Sam and she’d understand. Whether he’d got through to her, only time would tell. Rubbing feebly at his tense shoulders, trying to work the pain out, he drains the rest of his drink from the night before hoping to flush out the frustrating haze in his already exhausted mind. He wished he’d turned down the call, salvaged conversation over dinner, but when he’d returned to find Sam’s seat empty Rafe’s heart had dropped to the pit of his stomach, urgency replaced with anger. He doesn’t know what he found more frustrating – the fact that Sam had cleared the plates and cleaned up despite being instructed not to, or the fact that he was gone, like he’d run away from Rafe the second he’d had the chance.

Rafe watches the shadows of the trees outside dance in the moonlight flooding through the windows as he moves softly through the house. He’s never had heavy footfall, owed in part to a childhood fear of the dark that has never quite left him; but now he moves ever quieter, conscious of not being alone in his home for the first time in several years. He wonders how Sam is going to be when he wakes up, whether he’s taken some offence to the way he spoke about Nate – or didn’t speak about him, as it were. He wouldn’t be surprised. But he can’t say anything really. It must be so overwhelming for Sam to be out of prison after so many years, and Rafe can’t put into words any of the things that are really running through his head; about Nathan, about all this time he’s spent alone looking for Avery’s gold – Sam’s birth right, as he always said, although Rafe knows he deserves that treasure now as much as either of the Drakes possibly could – and about how much he’s missed him. Stupidly so.

Perhaps back then he could have said it. The years have changed them both almost beyond recognition.

All he can do is throw himself into work. It’s all he ever does.

Tucked safely in his desk chair in the quiet of his office, he whittles away the early hours of the morning pouring over years of notes and strategies that have lead to dead ends. All of it has been useless. If he hadn’t decided to retrace his steps to the prison, to find out if they’d missed anything all those years ago, he would have never found Sam and he’d be no closer to the Avery gold than he had been five years ago. Rafe knew that. Now he’s cursing the fact he didn’t look earlier, that he couldn’t bear the thought of going back to that hellhole. Ironic that his reluctance kept him from Sam for so long.

It’d been on some blog by an independent journalist that he’d first found Sam; some report from the late 2000’s on the state of law enforcement in Latin America by a guy named Jeff Carlson that Rafe hadn’t been able to track down at all. He wasn’t sure what had driven him to watch the film but it had given him just a glimpse, a face in a crowd – he would have recognized that face anywhere. It felt as if his heart had stopped, like he’d just seen a ghost. Except it wasn’t a ghost – Sam Drake is very real and alive and he’s in Rafe’s house. The thought sends an excited shiver up his spine, not for the first time since he’d realised the older man was coming back into his life. He’s still got the video somewhere, and he wonders whether Sam knew he’d been filmed. Probably not. He would have made more effort to be present on camera, to get seen at all costs.

Rafe is more than happy that he was the one who got to play the hero and rescue Sam. One small victory over Nate, and he was never going to let it go.

 

It’s not until the bright light of the sun breaking over the horizon pours in through the curtains and blinds him that Rafe realises the time. He glances at his wrist but finds he’s left his watch on the bedside table in his sleep-deprived haze. Whatever the time, it’s time to start his day.

He scrapes himself from his office chair and ambles sluggishly towards the garden with a cup of coffee to crash out on one of his deckchairs before his phone starts buzzing with updates from head office. It’s still mostly in shade at this early hour. Rafe isn’t much of a gardener – he pays a team of people for that – but he likes the view over the fountains and lawns as the early morning light slowly breaks into the brightness of day. Sipping at his coffee, still bare feet tapping along to an unheard beat against the dew-soaked decking, Rafe doesn’t register the footsteps behind him.

“Doesn’t really suit you.”

His mind jumps but his body remains gratefully still. Rafe’s eyes flicker round to Sam, finding him leaning in the doorway as he had been the night before, clutching a cup of coffee to his chest. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt - not one of the ones Rafe left out for him, although they’d all been perfectly suitable… but it’s deliciously tight over his broad shoulders.

“What?”

“This garden. Doesn’t suit you.”

It’s an odd topic of conversation, Rafe won’t deny that. At least it’s friendly… he’s glad his morning isn’t starting with an argument. Sam invites himself out and takes a seat next to Rafe like there’s no leftover tension from the night before at all. Perhaps he doesn’t feel it. Maybe Rafe is making it all up in his head – wouldn’t be the first time. He could ask, but that’s a terrible idea for many reasons so instead, he stays quiet, looking the other man over as he settles down beside him, blue-brown eyes tracing the lines of his face hard enough to commit them all to memory. “How so?”

He might have changed on the outside, but Rafe is convinced he’s still looking at the same man he fell for nearly fifteen years earlier when they met, when he was a foolish teenager desperately looking for an adventure to take him away from the drag of Upper Class New York. He’s no less handsome – perhaps more so – and Rafe swears as he looks at him he feels his heart thud heavier in his chest in a way he hasn’t felt in so long.

“Well,” Sam says slowly, considering his words in a way that is still so familiar to Rafe. His eyes light up as his thoughts manifest into coherent words and he finally starts to speak. “The house… the house felt like you straight away. Modern, expensive. A little cold in places, but around every corner there’s something, some flourish, an injection of personality. I like it.”

“Look at you, figuring yourself some sort of interior designer.”

“God no.” Sam laughs as he studies the view, eyes darting back and forth across the manicured landscape. “But your garden’s tacked on. No – hear me out. It’s perfectly nice, but it looks like you just opened some magazine and decided, ah, that one will do. It’s fine. But it could be any garden.”

Satisfied that he’s explained himself, Sam leans back and sparks up a cigarette out of the pack Rafe bought him at the Panama airport. Rafe finally drags his eyes off of him and back to the garden, staring more judgingly at his topiary hedges and wild flowers than he ever has done before. “It came like this,” he shrugs. He’s never really thought about it, just let the gardeners get on with their upkeep, and plant whatever they want. “I don’t spend enough time out here to pay any mind to it.”

“You should.”

“Mmm.”

The pointless conversation eases his mind a little and for a while, they’re both silent. Rafe’s head is so full of words he wants to say he can’t enjoy the peace. Of everything he expected from their reunion, he didn’t anticipate his feelings for Sam clawing their way back from the dead like this. Of course he’s never said anything. Especially not when Sam was always boasting about his sexual encounters with women… but he’s lying to himself it he pretends there’s nothing there, and Rafe hates to lie.

He’s got to get passed it. They’ve got to work together in close quarters once again and just like all those years ago, he’s got to box those feelings up and bury them so they can get on with the mission. Together, they’re only weeks from making a breakthrough on the treasure. He’s sure of it.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” he says, just to break the silence. There’s no urgency in his words; it’s simply a fact. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Sam looks over at him like he thought he’d never ask. “About Avery?”

Among other things.

“I’ve crossed off a lot of possibilities in the time you’ve been away.” Rafe gets up, suddenly aware he should have showered and changed before he came outside, because he’s still in his sweatpants and last night’s vest and Sam is fully dressed. He’s not used to company. “I may as well show you.”

 

Unlike the rest of the house, Rafe’s office is not crisp and white and immaculate; he’s decorated it darker, more accommodating for his tastes. It’s not a room meant for impressing anyone and whilst he hates mess, it’s not organized in any way that anyone else could interpret. The walls are dark, lined with wooden bookshelves, heavy curtains blocking out most of the natural light even tied back, and it’s furnished more thoroughly than any other room, with a chesterfield couch and side tables, a Turkish rug, and right in the center, his mahogany desk, littered with paperwork and dominating the space. The surfaces are chaotic, covered with artifacts and books marked with colourful notes; the whole room looks as if it’s in perpetual motion and it almost is. Rafe does most of his work for Adler Global on his cell phone nowadays, but every free minute he has when he’s not on a call or travelling to the Manhattan office is spent in this room.

He leans over the desk, laying out some of his Avery files. Each one is labelled with a year and a location, one for every lead he’s followed and failed on. The office is a museum for his failures as much as the rest of the house is for his triumphs.

“Go ahead,” he motions towards them, catching Sam’s eager expression. It’s the first time he’s seen him light up like that since he walked out of those prison gates. “Knock yourself out.”

Leaving him flipping through the old folders, he picks up the latest one, paging through it to his notes on Scotland. It’s been years since he last visited the Cathedral, but with Sam in tow, he’s sure it’s worth another look. The older man has tenfold the intelligence of his younger brother and where Rafe and Nate failed, he’s confident Sam could succeed. He’s left that file intentionally out of the array.

“Shoreline,” Sam says after a while, tapping a finger against the letter in his hands. “They keep cropping up.”

Ah. Not the way he wanted to tell Sam about this, but it’s as good a time as any.

“I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you,” Rafe explains, watching for his response. “I’m not going to pretend I’ve done all this work alone.”

Curious hazel eyes fix on him, softly demanding an explanation. He doesn’t imagine it’s the one Sam wants to hear. 

“I tried working with a number of people but I wasn’t keen on sharing information about Avery with anyone. Turns out, that’s not the best strategy for success,” he laughs quietly. “I needed to find someone I could trust to work with me on this. _You_ weren’t here, obviously, but that’s when I met Nadine Ross.”

“Who?”

“Our fathers worked together. She has a private force, now at our disposal. We may use them however we wish.”

“Right.” Sam doesn’t sound impressed. Rafe wasn’t sure he wanted to go into the nature of the partnership, not yet. The less Sam knew for the time being, the better.

“You’d like her,” he adds, although he wasn’t sure that was strictly true. She’d certainly not sounded keen on Sam.

He doesn’t look convinced, either. Whatever is going through his head – Rafe wishes he could see inside his mind, read his thoughts – was taking him some time to process. “What’s she like?”

Always the same. The strange inflection in Sam’s voice as he asks the question makes Rafe think that perhaps he was hoping she was attractive, that he was looking to put another notch in his belt. It’s probably been a while. Still, it doesn’t fail to make Rafe angry, already feeling his body buzz as his mind leaps to deflect the question. Is Sam really that shallow? Maybe he was over-reading it. He doesn’t want to think about him with Nadine, or anyone else, but his mind is already unhelpfully supplying images of the thought that only add fuel to the fire. “Professional,” he says, sharper than he means to. “She gets the job done.”

His tone earns him a raised eyebrow and a smirk. “Alright, I’ll take your word on it. We’ve talked about it before, 400 million splits easily between four-”

“Don’t even think about it.”

Sam’s smirk drops. He feels a pang of regret, but he means it. He knows Sam is trying to bring Nate up again and Rafe isn’t sure he can handle that conversation right now.`

“Nadine and I partnered up on this when you were inside. Do you have any idea how hard it was to convince her to even let me bring you into this?” He continues, tossing the folder back on the desk with a scoff. “She wasn’t having it. She doesn’t trust people easily. But I talked her round, and it took no small effort.”

“What about Nathan?” Sam demands. “This treasure is as much his as it is anyone’s. He deserves to be involved.”

The words ring in Rafe’s head like someone has just hit a church bell inside his skull. No, no. There isn’t going to be any Nate, or anyone else. This is about him and Sam, and whatever Nadine needs to be paid in order to keep quiet and get the job done. “Look. I trust her, Sam. She knows a hell of a lot. If Nadine bails, we’re probably going head to head with her for that treasure and she’s smart enough to team up with someone else who knows what they’re doing. We’ve got to keep her on side, so I need you to work with me on this. For now.”

Reaching across the desk, he claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder and squeezes it, looking for any sign on the other man’s face that his words are sinking in. He looks compliant enough, frustrated but quiet, but Rafe wants reassurance.

He can’t afford for the rug to be pulled out from under his feet now.

“Besides, she’s a valuable commodity. She brings a lot to the table,” he says. His lingering touch leads his eyes down to Sam’s tattoo, and how easily he could reach out and touch it right now. God, he wants to. “Look, you’re going to need to prove yourself to her. But I have faith in you to do that.”

Sam’s lips part like he has something to say, but no words come. He makes no effort to push away Rafe’s hand, and it remains there until he feels he has to move it, reluctantly letting it drop to his side as he waits on his companion’s verdict.

“I’m not doing this without my brother, Rafe.” 

Rafe narrows his eyes a little but quickly shakes the expression away. His hand comes compulsively to his hair, still messy with sleep, a finger brushing over the small scar scratched permanently into his hairline. He has no intention of speaking to Nathan Drake ever again. “Get her on side, then we’ll talk about bringing Nate in. Does that suit? Otherwise it’s a futile effort.”

Sam considers his words and shrugs, picking up another file without adding anything else to the argument. Seems he’s won for now. Rafe’s sure the topic will come up again soon but he’ll be ready to deflect it again, until the day he’s forced to explain himself.

 

“Rafe.”

For over an hour, the room has been silent but for their breathing and the occasional vibration of Rafe’s phone, Sam engrossed in his notes and documents and Rafe flipping through books, intermittently stepping out to take a business call. It’s a welcome distraction from the frustrating string of emails he’s been dealing with. “Mmm?”

When he looks up from his desk chair, Rafe finds Sam lounging on the couch, one foot hanging over the arm. He’s got a handful of papers raised above him and shifts to get comfortable, his back arching slightly and his tight shirt edging up as he tucks his arm behind his head, revealing an inch of golden skin. Rafe has to bite his lip to keep an unwelcome groan slipping out.

“This lead, uh… Newton Ferrers, 2004.” Sam leafs through the pages with one hand, eyes darting over Rafe’s shorthand. Rafe’s amazed he’s deciphering it so easily. “You went looking for Avery’s family?”

Rafe gets up slowly, leaving his phone on the desk. His emails can wait – he knew it wouldn’t be long before Sam started to put the pieces together, but this is way sooner than he expected. Sam shifts again as he approaches, making room for Rafe to sit beside him. He takes a seat, settling in and crossing one leg over the other, his foot dangerously close to resting against Sam’s knee; the closeness doesn’t escape him. “I have some of the naval paperwork from his days serving on the HMS Rupert. Seems likes he sent most of his pay back home to his sister and nephew. A little unusual for the time, but it was nothing but a dead end.”

Passing the notes to Rafe, Sam slings an arm over the back of the couch. Rafe inhales sharply, shoulders tensing, half expecting to feel a hand settle on his shoulder. He’s a little disappointed when it doesn’t. “So Evelyn Condell – that’s his sister?”

“From what I could trace back, seemed to be so. Does it mean something to you?”

“Mmm.” Sam sucks his bottom lip as he thinks, scratching absently at his belly. Rafe keeps his head down, not taking any of his old notes in as he watches from the corner of his eye. The trail of hair dipping into the waistband of Sam’s trousers is very distracting. “There was another pirate active at the time. Also born in Devon. Just like the history books are never really sure if it’s Avery or Every, they can’t decide if he was Christopher Condell or Condent.”

It seemed like too much of a coincidence, but Rafe couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. Sam’s words were nonchalant, but the look in his eyes said he was onto something. “So that means…”

“Well, Condent left a wife back home when he hit the high seas,” Sam says softly. “Her name was _Evelyn_.”

Sam looks up at him with a devilish grin. Rafe knows they can’t be sure what it means, if it means anything at all, but it’s the first connection in the Avery case in years that has actually made his heart skip with excitement.

Perhaps it’s just the way Sam’s smiling. He can’t help smiling back.

They’re closer than he realised. As he turns his head he finds his nose almost brushing Sam’s, the air between them shared, and the room seems suddenly warmer. His eyes meet Sam’s hazel ones, glinting in the low light of the office. Rafe’s breath catches in his throat, his next words barely more than a murmur. “It’s worth following up.”

“Gotta start somewhere,” Sam says, his voice just as quiet.

For a moment Rafe’s sure the other man is feeling exactly what he is, hyper aware of how easy it would be to close that tiny space between them; his fingers tighten around the paper in his hands and he feels his body urging him to lean in. “See,” he hums, his mouth dry. “I knew I needed you for this.”

The office door opens. The heavy creak of oak is enough to slash the tension and Rafe pulls quickly back, putting the much needed distance between them to keep himself from doing something foolish. What the hell was he thinking?

“Rafe.” Nadine looks between them, not particularly impressed.

“Haven’t you heard of knocking?” Rafe growls, getting up quickly. He looks from Nadine to Sam, and at the papers scattered all over the couch and floor, and kicks himself for losing track of time. Sam’s looking up at Nadine from the couch with an eyebrow raised, a frown replacing his childish grin. Rafe misses it already.

“Good to see you again,” He shifts uncomfortably, forcing a smile onto his face. Nadine looks smug and Rafe can feel his shoulders twitching because he knows exactly why. She’s never been asked to knock before. “Sam, this is Nadine Ross. Nadine, this is…”

“Sam Drake I presume,” she finishes, as Sam gets up and holds out his hand. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

The tension between the two of them could be cut with a knife. Rafe grits his teeth, hoping that when she walked in, Nadine read the scene differently to how it must have looked, but he knows it’s wishful thinking. He’s got a feeling things are only going to get worse from here.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for you nice comments so far, I'm so stunned! Feedback keeps me writing so if you like it and you want to see more, just let me know.

Nadine’s handshake is polite but domineering, her fingers gripping a little tighter around Sam’s than he would like. He takes in the sight of her as he greets her; striking and dignified, statuesque in her heels that make her almost as tall as Rafe. She’s beautiful but there’s no warmth in her amused smile or her behind her dark eyes, like even now she’s on edge, preparing for something. For the life of him, he can’t guess what.

“Nice to meet you.”

It’s all he says before he drops her hand.

As soon as he does, her attention is back on Rafe as if he isn’t even in the room. She looks the younger man up and down, a slow patronizing pull to her gaze. And Rafe is a sight in his vest and sleep pants, bare feet and hair still loose and messy. He looks as though he’s just woken up, dark circles below his eyes even more evident now he’s not smiling anymore, but it must be nearing noon. Sam was too engrossed in what he was reading to think of the time and he can’t see a clock anywhere in the office.

“Sorry if I was… interrupting anything,” Nadine says, resting a hand on Rafe’s shoulder. He doesn’t react; Sam watches the exchange silently. “Come on, Rafe. You knew I was coming. You could have at least gotten dressed.”

Something about Rafe being caught like this… it’s vulnerable. Especially as his business partner mocks him, even his stone-faced façade doesn’t seem an adequate defence. Sam likes it. It’s more like the Rafe he used to know – young, emotional, still finding his footing in the world – than the man he talked with last night.

Which still doesn’t explain what Nadine just interrupted. Sam’s completely lost on what to make of their fleeting moment, sharing the air they breathed, their lips so close they could have brushed almost accidentally. Part of him had wanted it – he’d leaned in, hadn’t he? As he was talking about Evelyn Condell, he knew he’d moved closer to the younger man, inching into his space, guided by his instincts. And by the way Rafe hadn’t moved, the softness of his voice as he spoke – Sam is certain he could have kissed him and Rafe wouldn’t have pushed him away.

He just isn’t sure whether he wants that.

“I was working,” Rafe says coldly, shrugging Nadine’s hand from his shoulder. “Samuel has already found something we missed. Needless to say, I lost track of time.”

“Oh?”

Nadine looks at Sam again like she’s only just remembered he’s with them. Sam shuffles under her gaze, feeling the need for nicotine tugging at his tongue, urging him to get away. “Well, it’s something. Can’t be certain of what it means yet, but it’s a starting point.”

“Good, something for you two to talk about,” Rafe interjects. He seems to relax as the attention isn’t all on him anymore, smile fixed once again on his face. Snatching his phone off the desk, Rafe starts towards the open door. “I won’t be long.”

And then he’s gone. Sam smiles awkwardly, unsure whether to sit back down or not, lest it give her the impression he’s willing to settle in and discuss Avery with her already. He’s not. Something about her – perhaps just the way she so easily intimidated Rafe, of all people – is putting him on edge, and Sam can’t shake what Rafe said about her knowing so much already. Avery is his and Nathan’s find. Sam won’t give that up to anyone.

He doesn’t have to decide. Nadine seats herself behind Rafe’s desk, and Sam feels an immediate flare of anger, confident Rafe wouldn’t be happy with her sitting in that chair. He’s forced to remind himself what he realised last night – he doesn’t know Rafe like that anymore. Although the morning has been nice so far, really nice, like the sort of comfortable he felt when he’d first met the younger man. Perhaps he can get back to that, get to know Rafe again. If he can win him over on the Nathan issue, then Sam’s open to accepting however it is that Rafe has changed over the years. He supposes he’s changed too.

“What have you found?” Nadine’s leafing through the last file Rafe had open on the desk and she doesn’t look up as she speaks. Sam sits at the very edge of the couch, ready to leave when he can.

“Nothing solid yet, really. Just a name, might be a connection to someone else Avery would have known.” Sam stays purposefully vague. “Something Rafe glossed over a long time ago. I’m sure he would have gotten there eventually.”

Her dark eyes fix on him again, and he figures the explanation isn’t enough. Fine. She’ll have to fight him for it, though. Sam smiles warmly at her as if he’s ignorant to what she’s after.

“You know, Drake.” Nadine drops her eyes again. “Rafe has spoken a lot about you. Says you’re the expert. Perhaps the only one who can find this treasure. Does that sound right?”

Rafe said that about him? Sam’s surprised, partly that Rafe would ever say anything like that about anyone but himself, but also because he doesn’t believe in himself half that much. Nathan and him together, sure, they can find it. But Sam’s not confident he can actually do it without his brother. The two of them have always worked together, and that’s how it works best – Nathan brings a lot to the table that he doesn’t. A pang of regret tugs in his chest as he realises how few times he commended Nathan for what he could do, so often eating up the praise and taking the credit for their successes himself. “Do you believe it?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His smile grows a little smugger. She’s digging, and he’s not going to give her anything. She’s going to have to earn his trust too. Rafe’s got a lot on his hands if he thinks this partnership is going to be an easy one. “Well, I’d hate to boast.” He stands again, taking his chance to get out of there. He pulls out the pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his jeans and tucks one behind his ear. “Excuse me. Gotta satisfy the habit.”

As he leaves the room with Nadine still sat at the desk, her eyes fixed coldly on his back, he knows he hasn’t made a great impression. Sam wonders if she knows anything about what happened between Nathan and Rafe, whether he should make an effort to be friendlier until he can wheedle that information out of her. It would be a good place to start, especially if it’s only going to rub Rafe the wrong way to keep asking. But not just yet. He doesn’t want Nadine to think he’s easy to walk all over.

 

Sam returns to his room to ensure a moment of privacy, laying down on the bed for a few minutes and closing his eyes. He’s not tired; he slept fairly well after so much wine the night before although the bed is almost too comfortable compared to the prison bunks and probably any other he’s ever slept in. But his mind is already overworked, so used to the repetitive routine of prison, mindless laboring and endless hours of empty time every day. Using his head this much is as exhausting as it is exhilarating. He listens to his own slow breathing and the soft whirr of the air-conditioning, enjoying the peace the silence brings. Sam’s head is clearer today and whilst it’s still full with last night’s resolve, the morning light brought clarity. He knows it’s not going to be as easy as beating answers out of Rafe and running off to find his brother – and that he had perhaps been a little fast in his jetlagged haste to judge his host’s words and actions. He’s a guest, and he knows he best act like one. Him and Rafe can help each other and when there’s enough progress towards the gold, he’ll insist on bringing Nathan back into the fray so the three of them can seek out Avery’s treasure together, just like they intended on doing all those years before.

With Nadine Ross as well, he supposes. Sam gets up with a groan, rubbing his overloaded head.

He glances longingly at the balcony and the blue skies beyond. It’s barely hit him where he is, having seen next to none of the country since he arrived back in it and he’s keen to take in the view from Rafe’s oversized home. The balcony key takes some finding, but he eventually wrestles it open and steps out into the midday sun, enjoying the warmth on his face and the rush of fresh air. It’s late September and the New York weather is nothing like that in Panama, blissfully colder but the skies are still beautifully clear for the time of year. Sam’s missed the cold – he’s always loved the first chill of fall and the darker days that follow. Leaning over the balcony railing, he sparks up a cigarette and looks down at the circular driveway at the front of the house. They’d been picked up from the airport in a chauffeured vehicle but it’s nowhere to be seen; there’s only a small, sleek black convertible that certainly doesn’t look like something he can picture Rafe driving – must be Nadine’s. Which begs the questions – where is Rafe’s car? He hadn’t mentioned a garage when he’d shown him around. Sam’s a little disappointed. He was hoping to spy on whatever it was the rich man drove these days. 

From here, the outside the world doesn’t look like it’s changed too much. Sam can see trees and rooftops of other huge houses like this one, the kind he’d hit up plenty of times in his youth for various jobs. It’s weird to be on the other side of the glass wall… he’s not sure he’ll get used to it anytime soon.

Besides, it’s not like he’s made it. At the end of the day, he’s just Rafe’s ward. Without him right now, he’d be out on the streets like he was the day he left St Francis’ boys home. He tries not to dwell on it.

Sam knows the view is an illusion. Beyond the skyline, there’s a very different world waiting for him to the one he was forced to leave behind; he’s seen it already, he could tell just from the journey over here yesterday. The television screens in the back of the airplane seats, the electronic security systems at the airport that looked just like something out of a movie. The number of people – just everywhere, more people than he’s ever used to seeing in the streets…. the fact that Rafe’s cell phone fit in the palm of his hand. Sam doesn’t want to know how much he’s missed, or what awaits him out there. He’d rather go back in time, get lost in history. 

History makes sense to him. He’s safe there.

 

A few cigarettes later, Sam has to give up hiding from Nadine and Rafe. He knows he can’t chain-smoke forever; there aren’t even that many left in his packet, and he has no idea where to go to get his hands on more. He doesn’t know how to say that he’s just not feeling up to working on this right now, not with her, and not after almost kissing Rafe, if that’s what that was.

Speak of the devil. 

As Sam leaves his bedroom, another door opens further down the hall and Rafe steps out. That must be his room, because he’s fully dressed now. Part of Sam is hoping Rafe doesn’t spot him but of course he does, straight away.

“Sam,” Rafe acknowledges, still doing up a cufflink on his shirt as he approaches. “Did you need me?”

“Oh. No, I…”

Rafe stops in front of him. He’s a little taller in his boots, almost meeting Sam’s eye line when they’re facing each other. He’s wearing a charcoal grey shirt tucked into some belted, tightly fitted black jeans and it all suits him so well, the top few buttons of his shirt undone to reveal a flash of chest hair. He hasn’t shaved; the stubble along his strong jaw makes his face look so much more mature, roguish even, and Sam’s close enough now to notice a little scar in the centre of his hairline, the only imperfection on his nearly perfect face. The smell of Rafe’s cologne fills his senses, musky and fruity and completely intoxicating as he studies the younger man’s unusual eyes, wondering exactly what they missed out on when Nadine rudely interrupted.

Shit, he’s staring. “No, just went back to my room for a smoke.”

“Oh.” Does Rafe sound disappointed? “Well, don’t worry about that. You can smoke anywhere you want in the house.”

There goes his best excuse for slipping away when he needs a breather. Sam cringes inwardly, nodding his thanks anyway. “Only if you don’t mind.”

Rafe laughs abruptly, shaking his head. “Of course not, Sam. _Mi casa es tu casa._ Wherever you want to smoke, go ahead.”

The Spanish rolls off of Rafe’s tongue like he was born to speak it. He didn’t know a word of the language last time Sam saw him, and Sam can tell by the accent that he’s probably fluent now. Rafe is full of surprises, it seems. “We should get back to it then, I suppose.”

Neither one of them moves an inch. For the second time that day, Sam feels trapped in this weird moment with Rafe, like they’ve started this dance that neither of them can escape until the music stops or somebody missteps. The space between them is electrifying and Sam feels like he’s fighting magnetism to keep from pressing his body against Rafe’s right here in the corridor.

It’s not just him, he knows it isn’t. Rafe lifts a hand to touch his arm, but he’s uncertain, and it drops again before his fingers makes contact. Sam half-smiles, his throat going dry, knowing that Rafe’s touch just then may have been enough to make him throw his caution to the wind. When did this so suddenly become an issue?

He clears his throat.

It’s enough to break the tension and Rafe immediately steps back, a forced smile flickering onto his face.

“Right… Shall we?”

 

Working in the office – the three of them together – is more than uncomfortable and Sam finds the easiest way to ease his agitation is to spark up another cigarette almost as soon as he’s put one out. Rafe doesn’t bat an eyelid, but Nadine clearly doesn’t enjoy the smell, moving to sit on the window ledge with her work after his second and opening the sash as wide as she can. 

“Has Rafe told you?” She says nonchalantly as the younger man steps out to make a call. “I suppose you wouldn’t know. They’ve passed a law making it illegal to smoke in work spaces.”

“Guess I’m lucky this is a private residence then,” Sam snarks back, breathing another cloud of smoke into their shared airspace. He remembers hearing about the ban coming in shortly before they set off for South America, making the most of the chance to smoke in the Panamanian bars whilst they were over there. “Why, was it bothering you?”

Nadine shoots him a pointed look and he can’t help the smirk tugging at his lips. If she wants to argue her point, she needs to be more straightforward about it. Sam stubbornly refuses to accept being told what to do, especially if she doesn’t even have the courage to put it plainly.

“No.” She puts down her work and slides her leg off the windowsill, pushing herself up to her feet. “You know what is bothering me?”

His smirk grows a little more. He can’t help it – Sam’s just dying to push her buttons. Who even is she, this woman who so easily seems to intimidate Rafe Adler? Sam’s never been able to avoid starting trouble, and he’s got a feeling this will be no different.

“No idea. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

She stands over him, all five-foot-something of her tiny frame every bit imposing in her pantsuit and heels. Sam looks her over slowly from where he’s sat on the rug and leaves an eyebrow cocked. He refuses to scare quite so easily.

“ _You_ ,” she says, her accusatory tone as sharp as the look in her piercing eyes. She stares him down, but then her expression falls, calmness taking over her face once again. “Rafe and I never agreed a three-way split. You swan in here out of nowhere, suddenly you’re the expert on all this? I can’t even find anything on any ‘Samuel Drake’. Yet here you are. Who the hell are you?”

Sam knows he’s got her stumped. Maybe she’s not so tough after all – just wary. Who knows what a woman like Nadine Ross has been through to make her into what she is? For whatever reason, his presence here has made her nervous enough to look him up, try to uncover who he is. She won’t find anything. Him and Nathan aren’t anyone, and that’s the way it’s always worked best, both for their protection and their line of work. There’s no way she could know how much she’s encroaching on his territory, even being here on this treasure hunt at all. It doesn’t mean he’s going to like her though, not by a long shot. He hates the fact that Rafe told her all about Evelyn the second they were back in the room; that’s his lead to follow, not hers.

He makes a mental note to look Nadine up too as soon as he figures the best way to do that nowadays. He doubts it’s the Yellow Pages anymore. Stubbing out his cigarette in his empty coffee mug, Sam drags himself up off the ground to stand in front of her, her tiny frame hardly threatening anymore when he’s got more than half a foot on her.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” he shrugs. “I’m sure Rafe’s told you all about me, and I doubt there’s anything to add.”

She sniffs at his dismissive words, shaking her head a little. “I have never seen Rafe so enamored with a person before.”

“In my defense, that’s not exactly my fault,” Sam quips. He tries his best to ignore the way her words make his heart thud a little faster, the thought of Rafe talking about him that way. “All I’m going to say is that this treasure belonged in my hands long before anyone else started looking for it. So if Rafe says I’m the only one who can find it? Probably best to believe him. Because I can promise you we will find it, but you’re going to have to cut me some damn slack. Which means not looking at me like I’m a piece of dirt.”

“I didn’t-” 

“Don’t even say it.” Sam raises his eyebrows, daring her to try and deny it. She’s quick to shut her mouth, although he gets the feeling this argument isn’t over just yet.

The door creaks again, and Rafe enters, still on the phone. He looks between the two of them as he finishes his call, his expression growing visibly concerned. “Is everything alright?”

Nadine’s the first to move, and Sam thinks it’s probably a talent of hers to get the smile back on her face so fast like nothing’s happened. “Of course,” she says. “Drake was just telling me how sure he is he can find this treasure. Quite reassuring after so many months of failure, isn’t it?”

The younger man bristles slightly at her condescending words, but he’s quick to match her comfortable smile. Nadine and Rafe have a dance all of their own; one that plays for power, two animals circling and snapping at one another, waiting for someone to strike. He’ll have to keep his eye on them because he’s got a feeling it’ll be messy if one of them ever goes too far and that’s definitely not something he wants to be involved in.

“Oh,” Rafe says assuredly, turning his eyes to Sam. “Good to hear.”

“Can’t do anything without more information on Condent though,” Sam adds. He wants to say more, to explain that the research part was always Nathan’s strength and not his, but he’s still aware of Rafe telling him not to press the issue yet. Now he’s met Nadine, he can see why; he’ll just have to figure this one out on his own for now. “I’m starved. I’m going to take a break.”

As soon as he says it, Sam realizes how true his words are. His stomach is aching from skipping breakfast and it’s well past the time he’d have been served his daily bowl of gritty meat and grey rice for lunch at the prison. He scoops up his cigarette packet and instinctively puts another in his mouth as he goes to leave. Sam finds himself trapped in the room – Rafe’s still stood in the doorway.

“S’cuse me.” His words are mumbled around his unlit cigarette as he eyes the other man curiously, half-expecting to be told he’s not allowed to leave. It wouldn’t be anything he’s not used to by now.

“Go ahead,” Rafe says, motioning towards the door. Something about the look on his face tells Sam the younger man doesn’t want him to go, but he steps aside nonetheless; the moment of hesitation almost makes Sam want to stay. He feels two pairs of eyes lingering on him as he slinks out of the room, clicking the lid of his lighter open and shut as he hurries up the hallway away from whatever painful conversation between the two of them he’s leaving behind. He tucks the cigarette behind his ear, painfully conscious that it’s the last in his pack and of the sour taste of tobacco in his mouth, too many smoked in too few hours.

Rafe’s fridge is fully stocked and Sam’s hardly seen any of the foods in there before in his life. It had to contain every sort of vegetable and salad leaf from New York to the Middle East – there’s no way any man could eat this much fresh food before it expired. The thought makes him a little sick; the idea that Rafe probably throws out most of it before it ever gets used.

Before Panama, he’d been a trashy eater to say the least. He’d been feeding himself and Nathan paper-wrapped burgers and fries since they were little, and it was a brand of nutrition that seemed to be readily available wherever they went. The grocery store display inside the fridge was appealing, but he honestly had no idea what to do with any of it. Giving up after a few minutes, he grabs a block of cheese and closes the door. He digs around in the drawers for a sharp knife and slides up onto the counter where Rafe had cooked the night before, settling down cross-legged and feeding himself small slices off the blade. Sitting up on the sideboard hits him with a wave of nostalgia; it reminds him of so many motels he’s stayed in with his brother, hanging out together in the kitchenettes and surviving on take out and boxes of cereal as they try to make ends meet.

God, he misses those simple days. Those were days when they thought they could take on the world together, like nothing would ever stop them. Nathan was still a child, but Sam watched him grow every day into the smart, adventurous young man he’d become. He was so proud of him back then. And he knows he’ll feel the same when he sees him again, prouder still of the man he must have grown up to be.

Sam realizes he’s got to do it for Nathan. Putting up with Nadine, dealing with Rafe – coping with his unexpected feelings for him – it’s all part of finding the treasure. When he sees his brother again, he’ll be able to explain what’s kept him away, everything he’s putting himself through just to give him the things they always wished for. Nathan will understand. He has to.

 

When Sam’s full, there’s barely a scrap left. He wraps up the leftovers and tucks them away, hoping he remembered right that Rafe said he could help himself to anything. Feeling guilty, and a little nauseous – half a pound of cheese is enough to almost make him sick – he heads out the back to smoke in privacy once more, hoping to string out his time alone. 

There’s nothing behind his ear. Fuck, where the hell has that gone? Sam pats down his body like he’s put the cigarette away but he knows he’s dropped it somewhere. He curses out loud and rakes his fingers through his hair, tugging at it in frustration. When he closes his eyes to calm himself down, he’s back in the prison. He remembers brawling and gambling, cutting cards for the chance at half a pack of stale cigarettes – god, the taste of nicotine was so sweet after crawling through nearly a week without it. Sam kicks the ground and curses again at himself for letting his nerves get the best of him; that packet could have lasted him two weeks in Panama.

It’ll be somewhere in the house, but he doesn’t want to go back inside yet, so he decides to walk the manicured lawns surrounding the whole building. It’s no small task – Sam’s sure it must get lonely living somewhere like this on your own. Rafe was such a social creature when they met, it’s hard to imagine the younger man going day to day barely seeing another soul inside these walls. He’d spent plenty of time thinking of his companion inside the prison, and his brother, and anyone he used to know. If he had to guess, he wouldn’t have predicted Nathan to be the one to settle down. Did he have a family now? How much had Sam missed in thirteen years? No – he always imagined he’d find his brother still adventuring, still looking for him. Sam’s dreamed plenty of times about Nate finding him and breaking him out, but even without that, he’d had hope that his brother and – as loathed as he was to think about it – Sullivan were still in the game. It was something to cling to, something he could go back to once he was out. And now? Now he’s just got Rafe.

Rafe was the one he’d expected to settle. It seemed like the thing to do in the circles he ran with, to marry someone with an estate as large as his own and have an heir. He’d imagined the younger man getting bored of treasure hunting when the next thrill came along and forgetting all about their escapades together. Forgetting all about him. How wrong he’d been.

He supposes there always was something different about Rafe Adler. He could never put his finger on it, but Sam’s got a feeling he’s in to learn a whole lot more about him in the coming months and well, he’s not put off by the thought. Even if Rafe has changed. Despite his resolve to leave and find Nathan, Sam can’t seem to fight the current that’s pulling him towards his companion.

 

As he reaches the front of the mansion, his train of thought is interrupted by the sound of harsh voices – one American, another South African. Instinctively Sam backs up against the wall; edging closer to the corner of the building and peering around it, he finds Nadine and Rafe out on the gravel driveway.

“I don’t see why it’s such an issue.” Rafe’s words are slow and calm, like he’s talking to a child. He’s got an unwavering coldness in his expression that Sam recognizes – even after all this time, he knows that face means Rafe is near the end of his tether. “You’re making mountains out of molehills, Nadine.”

She laughs curtly, one hand on her hip as she paces the drive. “Oh, am I? Is that what this looks like to you?”

Sam shrinks further down the wall, wary of being seen. He doubts this is a conversation they want overheard – but he’s not going to walk away. He wants the insight; if he can figure out what makes Nadine tick, he’ll know what to avoid. Or what to do more of. Perhaps he can eventually drive her away just by driving her up the wall.

“I’m just saying-”

“Saying what, Rafe?” Nadine sighs visibly, her shoulders sagging as she steps right up to Rafe, her slim body squared off against his. “I think I’ve made myself quite clear. If you expect me to work under these conditions, I want a bigger cut.”

It’s Rafe’s turn to laugh – he shakes his head, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “Nadine, _Nadine_. Listen to yourself. This is not even up for discussion… We split it equally or not at all, remember? We talked about this.”

“That was before he was involved!” She throws back, one arm motioning wildly behind her as if Sam were stood right there. He ducks back behind the wall completely, just to be safe, to be sure they haven’t seen him, and strains to listen.

“It was a fifty-fifty split before,” he hears Nadine insist. “And that’s what I want. I want my fifty percent.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Rafe scoffs.

“I don’t care if you two split the difference, or you take the loss and give him his full third. I don’t care. That’s your problem, Rafe. Those are my terms and you’ll have to accept them.” A long pause. God, Sam doesn’t like her. That condescending tone, so sweet and dignified and yet so cruel – she knows she’s got the upper hand, it’s in every word she says. He’s met women like Nadine Ross in the past, even worked for some, and although she most likely deserves his respect for being so strong, her presence makes him squirm. “You need my help and you know it, so I would consider this very carefully.”

Her words are met with another long pause, and Sam can’t help but look again. Nadine’s got a hand rested on Rafe’s chest and he’s hanging his head slightly, eyes fixed on her like a cornered animal watching a predator, waiting for its neck to get snapped.

“I’ll figure something out,” he says eventually. Sam barely hears it, Rafe’s voice low and venomous but his gaze dropping away to the floor.

“You’ll realize I’m only being reasonable,” Nadine adds, bringing her hand up to stroke Rafe’s cheek. The touch makes Sam bristle with frustration, although Rafe doesn’t seem to pull away. She pats his face gently and lingers for just a moment longer before going to her car, pausing before she slips into the drivers seat. “Drake has clouded your mind, Rafe. Don’t lose sight of the goal.”

And then she’s gone.

Sam’s not sure what he’s just watched, but it’s made him more than slightly uncomfortable. He doesn’t like the way Nadine’s treating Rafe – _his_ Rafe, his mind supplies unhelpfully, causing a flare of anger to crawl up his back, an urge to protect the younger man – and he doesn’t like the situation in general. To hell with trying to get along with her, Sam wants her out of the picture before he brings Nathan back into the game. Because if he can’t stand her treating Rafe like that, he’d hate to know how he’d react if she said a word against his baby brother. He watches for a moment longer as Nadine’s car pulls away and Rafe shakes off his dejected expression, composing himself quickly even though he’s completely alone.

Sam sighs as he watches his host head back inside his huge, empty house like nothing’s wrong. It’s suddenly clear to him Rafe Adler needs someone in his life, someone on his side and – confused feelings or not – perhaps that someone is Sam.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - this chapter is super long to make up for it (but also not beta read due to length). Thank you so much for your wonderful comments so far, they really keep me going with this fic! They mean the world to me. Lots planned and I've got my drive back, so chapter 5 should hopefully be out a little faster. 
> 
> I've also been posting this on my Tumblr (NyxRising) where I'll be sharing story graphics and stuff soon too. Enjoy!

Two weeks pass before he knows it, and if it weren’t for little nuances – having to teach Sam how to use his Smart TV, a frustrated phone call or two with Nadine about the change in their situation – Rafe’s sure he would have easily forgotten him and Sam hadn’t always lived together. He figures out how Sam takes his coffee without asking, and when he makes his own in the morning he leaves another on the side for Sam and heads out to the deck, waiting for him to join him. Sam’s not said anything about it. He seems to have accepted it as normal and Rafe feels no need to bring it up as they spend the early hours of the morning sitting out in the sun. As routines go it’s not exactly out there, but it all feels so good; Rafe’s never lived with anyone, not since his parents left him the house, and he’s surprised by how much he enjoys the permanent company. He doesn’t mind Sam’s smoking; the smell is better than his father’s cigars. Sam doesn’t seem to mind his moods either. It’s comfortable, and comfortable is welcome.

His mind still wanders to the thought of Sam’s lips when they talk over the dinner table; it’s impossible not to, the way the older man can’t keep things out of his mouth - his fork, his fingers, a cigarette - but Rafe has been able to keep his own hands strictly to himself. He’s grateful Sam’s keeping his distance, or perhaps he’s the one staying away because that’s the way it needs to be. A professional partnership.

Whatever he’d thought was happening, it isn’t. It’s for the best. Or at least that’s what he’s telling himself to get through the day.

The relaxed atmosphere has paved the way for steady progress; a fresh folder joins the rest of Rafe’s leads on Avery but this one is filling up with notes and not dead ends. The change is so refreshing it could keep him going for weeks.

Today Sam is working at his desk. He’s captivated, eyes fixed firmly on the screen, hesitantly tapping the keys of Rafe’s computer as he figures out how to use it. Rafe watches him from the couch over the top of a business proposal that’s been driving him up the wall for days trying to make heads or tails of. His life was so much simpler when he was just a silent shareholder, his input into the business limited to executive decisions and not much more. With the economy on a steady march to self-destruction, it’s just not viable to operate that way, and every decision is a risk he has to take – not to mention he’s wary of the consequences if his father gets sight of the accounts. Rafe swears that man loves his company more than he ever loved his own son.

Rafe hates every second of it. He’s not a business manager at heart, no matter how good he is at the job and long hours like this leave him lusting over the thought of getting away somewhere.

“There’s an inordinate amount of crap on the internet these days.” Sam’s squinting at the computer screen, face twisted in frustration as the speakers starts blaring a garish tune, probably from some terrible homemade website. Rafe snickers to himself, watching the panic and frustration growing on Sam’s face as he tries to kill the music. It robs them of fifteen seconds of peace before he figures out how to shut it down. “Don’t see how this is supposed to be useful for researching anything.”

Of course it isn’t. Especially not for someone who is all but new to the concept of internet research, wading through more than a decade's worth of useless information on hundreds of pages uploaded by unreliable sources. Sam never had a chance. “What have you found?”

“First off, this page is completely wrong.” Leaning back in his chair, Sam waves a hand at the screen and takes a drag on his cigarette before he goes on. “Says Condent was born in Massachusetts, and that he was the first to fly the Jolly Roger. But that flag was Jack Rackham’s creation. That’s not even uncommon knowledge.”

“People will believe anything they read online,” Rafe shrugs. “It’s a minefield. I did warn you.”

“It’s pointless. Why write it if it’s wrong? What made them think that was a good idea? Give me books and paper records any day.”

Sam catches his amused smile and scoffs at Rafe, but his frustration breaks as he laughs too, shaking his head at his little rant. They don’t need to talk about it. Rafe knows how overwhelming the technology is for his companion, but Sam will get there, and he’ll forget all about moments like this. But Rafe tries to commit that smile to memory, the sound of Sam’s laugh, the fascination in his eyes every time he’s had to show him something new because Rafe’s so proud of the fact he gets to be the one to see it all. They’ve still got a long way to go, but all things considered, Sam’s adjusting better than he’d worried he would. Sighing at the folder in his hands, Rafe closes it and gets up, pacing the room. There’s more to do yet and he’s not achieving anything sat here.

“Shut it down,” he says dismissively, already forming a different plan for the day ahead of them. “I’ll take you into the city. I need to go into the office and you need… well, everything. Clothes, for a start.”

“Umm… sure,” Sam pauses, his expression awash with concern as he looks from the computer to Rafe. “No idea how I’m going to pay you back for that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rafe scoffs. He’s sure Sam’s only saying it to be polite – Rafe had been the older man’s patron when they’d first set off after the Avery treasure, and it hadn’t even crossed his mind to take a different view on that. He has the money, all of it disposable, and Sam doesn’t. There’s no argument to be had.

He’s yet to approach the subject of Nadine taking a bigger cut of the treasure than both of them; Rafe has no idea how to bring it up without putting himself and Sam at odds. But Nadine was right – their arrangement is her walking away with half of what they find. Perhaps he can negotiate something better for himself but Rafe knows he’s walking a thin line already, and for now he’s going to have to honor his words if he doesn’t want her to pull out altogether. After all these years, even with Sam at his side, he’s convinced they’re going to need Shoreline.

Probably better Sam is none the wiser for now. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. It’s never been about the money for Rafe anyway – 400 million is nothing to be sniffed at but his business could turn that over in profit in a few months if he ever needed it.

“Whatever you say,” Sam shrugs, grumbling slightly as he gets up from the desk. “It’ll be nice to get out of the house.”

Rafe’s satisfied that he’s won. “There we go, then. Meet you out front in a few.”

 

He has security bring one of his cars around, keys in the ignition when he reaches the driveway. It’s not his favourite to drive, but the white Porsche is compact and makes so much more sense for heading into Manhattan. It’s been too long since Rafe’s taken one of the faster cars out for a spin – he’ll have to make time for it, maybe take Sam up the highway into upstate New York sometime. Get some real speed beneath his tires on the long, empty roads, maybe hit up the beach or one of the Country Club bars.

Then again, that’s probably not Sam’s style.

“Whoa.”

Rafe turns to find Sam eyeing the car in awe, mouth slightly agape. Perhaps he’s wrong – maybe the luxuries of the New York elite can impress him after all.

Somehow Rafe still doubts it. “You like it?”

“Bit of an upgrade from what you used to drive.”

“Every car on the modern market is an upgrade from what I used to drive,” Rafe smirks. He looks Sam over, happy to find the older man wearing something he left out for him for once, rather than another musty old shirt from his pre-Panama luggage. Not that one of his tank tops and a white button down is really the best look on Sam. Rafe’s sure they can find something much more suitable today. “Are you going to be warm enough?”

“Yes mom,” Sam snickers, patting Rafe on the shoulder as he opens the passenger door and slides inside. There’s a moment of stunned silence as he settles into leather seat. “Holy hell – the inside of this thing looks like a spaceship.”

“It’s just a car.” Rafe regrets his words as he gets into the driver's seat, catching sight of the excitement on Sam’s face. His hazel eyes are lit up like a child in a toy shop, hands running over the chrome inlay on the dashboard, very gently as if it’s almost too precious to touch. “But it’s pretty exceptional,” Rafe adds, softening a little at the sight of him. “Watch this.”

Tapping the ignition switch, he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on Sam as the car revs silently into life. Rafe prefers cars with more of an aggressive roar, but the quiet purr of the Porsche's’ engine only seems to excite Sam more. The dashboard flickers up, the onboard computer greeting Rafe before switching to his favourite radio station.

“Just a car,” Sam repeats with a disbelieving laugh. “You’re going to tell me this is par for the course for all modern cars now, aren’t you?”

“Not quite, but almost.” Grinning, Rafe buckles up and pumps up the volume on the radio before he pulls away from the house, fast enough to churn up the gravel on the drive.

 

Cruising down the 495, it doesn’t take long to reach the limits of Queens. Sam fills most of the ride with small talk, discussing his thoughts on Christopher Condent and how frustrated he is using the computer for research. The closer they get to Manhattan, the more questions he has about the buildings they’re passing, the highway billboards, the houses, and Rafe’s more than happy to sate his curiosity. The outer city boroughs haven’t changed all that much in thirteen years, not on the outside, save a few more buildings and upgraded streetlamps. When they’re not talking the radio’s playing, and Sam’s got an endless stream of commentary on the poor direction music has taken. It’s not until they reach the East river that he falls completely silent for the first time.

“Everything alright?”

The question doesn’t pull Sam’s attention away from the window. His forehead is rested against it, shoulders sagged like he’s exhausted, despite his energy just a few minutes earlier.

“Yeah, it’s just…” Sam’s voice is soft, his gaze dragging across the horizon. “It’s so bizarre.”

Rafe waits, gives him time to explain, but Sam doesn’t seem to want to elaborate. “What is?”

“The city.” Sam shifts, sinking further into his seat with a sigh. “It’s easy to pretend nothing’s changed that much, but there it is. Different skyline. New skyscrapers. Hell, I can’t get my head around the Towers being gone. I’m looking at a different Manhattan to the one I left behind.”

Glancing from the city skyline to the man beside him, Rafe’s chest aches with sympathy for his friend. It’s easy to forget how strange it all must be visually – Rafe can barely remember what the world looked like thirteen years earlier. He wants to say something – that there’s so much out there that Sam will love, that he’ll get used to it in time, that change doesn’t have to be bad – but he knows he won’t say it. He can’t do emotion, not like that. It’s just not in him.

“I find it’s better not to think about it,” he settles with.

It’s not the right thing to say, but it seems to have the desired effect, because Sam sits up again without another word and plays with the radio instead, eventually settling on a station playing classic rock.

“Here we go, this is more like it,” Sam says, a smile returning to his face. It’s just a mask but Rafe can do masks. He matches it with his own. Rolling the windows down, he turns up the volume until it’s too loud to hear themselves think. As the music really kicks in, Sam’s forced grin becomes easier and then he’s singing along.

Rafe couldn’t care less about the traffic as they cross the Brooklyn Bridge, breeze on their faces, fingers tapping to the beat of Rock You Like a Hurricane.

 

Aquila’s sits just off of Sixth Avenue, a six-story masterpiece of New York architecture that takes up almost an entire block of the city; it had once served as a hotel but has been long since converted into a department store by Rafe’s grandfather. Rafe strolls through the front door with his hands in the pockets of his slacks, Sam in tow, and one of the shop attendants clocks them almost immediately, squeaking slightly as they hurry away.

“Impressive building,” Sam says, taking in the sight of the sprawling entrance hall. It hasn’t changed since it was converted in the 1930’s, a beautiful blend of Art Deco marble and lighting and telltale signs of the building’s history, elaborately carved wooden fixtures and converted fireplaces serving as lingering features of it’s earlier usage. “Bet it’s costing us just to breathe the air in this place, right?”

He shoots Rafe a teasing smile and earns himself a raised eyebrow in return.

“Good one,” Rafe mocks. “You’re very funny.”

“I know.” Sam grins, wandering towards one of the clothing racks and idly looking through it. He’s lightened up since they arrived in Manhattan, his earlier excitement returning as they passed through familiar streets with all of New York’s permanent fixtures still in place. Rafe watches him silently as he browses; to gauge his reaction, of course, and not just because he wants to. Even in Rafe’s Armani shirt the older man still looks so out of place in the store; Rafe still thinks of him in the clothes he used to wear, of the messy, handsome man in grubby jeans and short sleeve shirts who always looked ready to hustle you. But Sam’s not that person anymore. He’s older now; he’s mellowed out, and he deserves a wardrobe to match. Except Rafe doesn’t know where to begin, and judging by the look on Sam’s face as he pulls items from the rack, neither does he.

Rafe would kill to see him in a well-fitted tux, though. He’ll have to find an occasion for it.

“Okay, wait up,” Sam says suddenly, holding up a garish looking yellow shirt in one hand, pulling another bright pink one off the rail. Both are laden with flowery patterns and stripes, and Sam’s face looks as horrified at the sight of them as Rafe immediately feels at the thought of Sam wearing them. “What the hell are these? When did Victor Sullivan come into fashion?”

Snorting with laughter, Rafe glances around to make sure Sam’s outburst isn’t being listened in on by other shoppers. It’s fine, they’re alone.

“No, seriously. All these clothes are awful.” Sam stuffs the two shirts back onto the rack and picks up a vest with a high collar and no back. “Did I die in prison? Tell me I died. I don’t want to live in a world where this is what people wear.”

“It’s designer,” Rafe explains, but there’s no real argument to make. He would never wear any of those things, and he’s not expecting Sam to.

“Designer my ass,” Sam sniffs, haphazardly folding the vest and chucking it back on the table it came from. “What sort of shop is this? Do they even sell regular clothes?”

Before Rafe has a chance to defend the department store, another shop attendant hurries down the main staircase towards them. He’s dressed in a white shirt and waistcoat, and Rafe recognizes the red and black pin on his tie that indicates he’s a manager. A smirk tugs at his lips as the man stops in front of him, offering his hand.

“Good morning Mr. Adler,” he says as Rafe shakes it. The manager looks a little flustered, but quickly regains his composure. Rafe hates being called by his surname – reminds him too much of his father – but he lets it slide, not comfortable with allowing the man the familiarity of calling him by his first name either. “What can we do for you today?”

“Hmm,” Rafe hums, glancing at Sam, who’s eyeing the manager apprehensively. “Are Vera and Jonathan around? I’ve got a challenge for them.”

“Of course, sir. Right this way.”

The manager heads towards the main staircase and Rafe beckons for Sam to follow, the older man looking very suspicious of what’s to come.

The stylist’s suite is on the third floor, and it’s quite busy when they reach it. Sam’s initial impression of the store seems to dissolve into distaste as they progress through it but Rafe doesn’t feel the need to say anything; they’re not here for Sam to enjoy himself. He can’t get by wearing Rafe’s clothes forever, as nice as the sentiment of that would be.

“Rafe! How are you darling?” Vera swans out to meet them, dressed head to toe in black and a pair of platforms that make her taller than him. She engulfs him in a hug, pressing air kisses to his cheeks before she finally releases him.

“You’ve cut your hair off,” he says bluntly, eyeing her short, sharp crop of blonde hair. He preferred it long and dark. “It looks… nice.”

The stylist takes it as a compliment, fluffing her bob with one hand and posing slightly for him, unable to keep herself from laughing happily. “Thank you! I’m loving it,” she says, and turns to Sam at last, looking him up and down. “And who is this lovely thing?”

“Hi,” Sam says with a soft smile, earning him a grin from the girl. “How are you?”

Rafe knows that twinkle in Sam’s eye – the young woman is eccentric but she’s attractive enough. She’s also half his age, although Rafe’s forced to remind himself that past experience has taught him that Sam isn’t picky. All too prevalent are the memories of nights spent making small talk with Nate in hotel bars, whilst Sam surrounded himself with a gaggle of women or pursued his latest conquest in their shared room. Why should anything have changed? The man’s had nearly fifteen years behind bars and he’s probably desperate to go home with someone. Shifting uncomfortably, Rafe looks between Sam and the girl and outright refuses to be jealous.

Sam is going to flirt and it’s none of Rafe’s business. It’s not allowed to be.

That doesn’t stop it stinging a little, but Rafe crushes the feeling instantly. “Sam, this is my stylist, Vera. And –” He pauses, looking about with a frown. “Where the hell is Jonathan?”

“Oh!” Vera says, pulling herself away from Sam’s lingering gaze. She turns on her heel, hollering down the corridor as she hurries away. “Jonny! You’ll never guess who’s here.”

Sam glances at Rafe the second they’re alone, eyebrows raised. Rafe stares back, waiting for him to comment until the silence finally makes him squirm. “What?”

“Stylists, Rafe? Really?”

“They can help you,” Rafe insists, folding his arms across his chest. Sam’s easy smile grows into a smirk as they wait in silence.

Moments later Vera returns with Jonathan in tow, delicate hand circling his wrist as she tugs him along. He lights up as he sees Rafe, brushing her off as he hurries over to greet them. “Good to see you, it has been _far_ too long.”

Shaking the man’s hand Rafe realizes – moments after Sam, judging by the drop in his expression – that Jonathan is wearing the exact same floral shirt Sam had been ridiculing on the rack less than ten minutes earlier. He’s forced to bite the inside of his mouth to keep himself from laughing, especially as Sam’s surprise turns to horror. He doesn’t have to say anything for Rafe to know what he’s thinking – yes, he’s going to let this man dress him. It’s Rafe’s turn to smirk now, as he pats Sam on the shoulder.

“Jonathan, meet Sam,” he says, turning his attention to the older man. “I trust he’ll be safe in your capable hands?”

If looks could kill, Sam’s glare would have cut Rafe wide open.

“Oh, you know he will,” Jonathan says, tongue darting across his lips as he looks Sam over like a hungry predator. Rafe’s sure Sam will be fine. He’s good with people; he’ll talk them through what he needs and by the time Rafe returns, they’ll all be chatting away like old friends.

Probably.

Either way, it’s got to be better than letting Sam wander aimlessly through the store, getting more and more bewildered by the clothes. He lets his hand slide from Sam’s shoulder and gives him a reassuring smile, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket and taking that as his cue to leave them to it. Sliding it out, Rafe waves it at them and steps back, leaving Sam helplessly in their hands. “I’ve got to take this,” he says apologetically as he slips away. “Won’t be long.”

Sam’s mortified expression is priceless, and Rafe’s almost sorry to leave the three of them alone. Almost.

 

The call is from his father. He leans against the balcony railing, looking over the other floors of the department store and watches his cell buzz until it rings to voicemail. Whatever the old man wants, he’s pretty sure it’s not a conversation he wants to have right now. Instead he calls the office to let them know he’ll be in shortly and takes a walk idly through the store.

At first it’s aimless and Rafe enjoys the quietness; it’s a late September weekday and Aquila’s is far from buzzing, so he’s free to wander in peace. Eventually he leaves the clothing section and enters homewares, and it crosses his mind that Sam’s going to need more than just clothes. There are some things he’s better off picking on his own, but others Rafe is confident it’s going to be easier just to give him, so he continues on to electronics.

When he finally returns to the third floor, he’s got a whole bag of items he thinks Sam will need or at least like; among them are a cellphone, an electric razor, an iPod and a pair of sunglasses that look like the ones Rafe remembers him wearing years ago. He liked how those sunglasses looked on him but the gesture is just a friendly one, or at least that’s what he’s telling himself.

Everything he’s picked up has made him think hard about how Sam has been adjusting; Rafe’s not sure if he’s putting too much thought into it, that perhaps it’s not as difficult for his companion as he’s making it in his head, but he just can’t wrap his mind around what it must feel like to have been removed from everything for so long. It strikes him how much he wants to give Sam – Rafe would give him the world if he could, and he’s not sure how comfortable he is with the fact he feels that way – but he knows he’s got to pace himself. This generosity is so unlike him and his father would laugh if he could see him right now. At least his shopping spree should have given the two stylists enough time to work their magic, so Rafe heads back to the suite, confident he’ll find Sam with a whole new wardrobe.

On his arrival, Rafe realizes he couldn’t have been more wrong.

“He is a disaster,” Jonathan says as soon as he catches sight of Rafe, jabbing a finger in the direction of Sam’s cubicle. “I cannot work under these conditions.”

“Calm down,” Rafe orders, staring bluntly at the younger man. “You’re being very dramatic.”

Jonathan all but stamps his foot, struggling to maintain any professional composure even under Rafe’s unimpressed gaze. His hair is a mess, and Rafe knows he’s probably been tugging at it the way he always does when he’s stressed out. “He won’t even try anything on. This is ridiculous! You see that? You see that rail? That’s everything he won’t even look at.”

Glancing at the rail outside the changing room, Rafe doesn’t know whether to laugh or get angry. It’s heaped with clothes, some obviously tried, but most still untouched on their hangers. None of it – not a single item – looks like anything he’d had in mind and it’s certainly not anything he could picture Sam in. It’s no surprise Sam won’t let it near him. “If you can’t do this, get out of here. Go take a deep breath and calm the hell down.”

Like a scolded child, Jonathan thanks him and slinks away with his tail between his legs. Sam can’t be that bad, surely. It’s only clothes. But as Rafe sees Vera hurry back into the cubicle with another heap of clothing on her arm, he’s more than a little concerned.

Knocking on the outside of the cubicle, Rafe pulls the curtain back a little. “I see you’ve frightened Jonathan away, Samuel.”

Vera looks significantly less stressed, obviously in the middle of choosing between two shirts when Rafe interrupts them. She’s holding both up with a smile, and she cocks her head to the side to catch Rafe’s gaze. “He was being a complete nightmare, as usual. Sammy here did us all a favour.”

Leaning against the cubicle wall as he wiggles a pair of tight black jeans up over his hips, Sam merely shrugs and shoots Rafe a sheepish grin.

“Oh, I _love_ those,” the stylist stresses as Sam buttons the jeans, haphazardly tucking his vest into the waistband.

“You sure?” Sam’s eyeing his reflection like he’s just smelt something bad. “Aren’t they a little… tight? I think I preferred the looser pair…”

“They’re incredibly stylish,” Vera offers, looking him up and down appreciatively.

Sam laughs faintly. “I don’t know. Some of us favour substance over style, you know.” He catches sight of her fading smile and cringes a little, rubbing at his head thoughtfully. “Maybe in blue?”

Rafe sees the girl breathe a sigh of relief. Progress really must be slow. Vera agrees to fetch a couple of pairs in blue, and Rafe steps further into the cubicle to let her slip past. As the curtain falls shut again, he’s suddenly very aware of how alone they are. It’s all Rafe can do to keep himself from staring directly at Sam’s ass. The skinny jeans are figure hugging around his lower half in all the right places and Rafe can’t keep his eyes from drifting downwards over the older man’s lean, sculpted frame. He bites his tongue, trying to look like he hasn’t noticed, but he can’t keep a small groan of appreciation from slipping past his lips.

Sam’s eyes meet his in the mirror. “You like them?”

“They suit you,” Rafe says dismissively, but his attentions haven’t gone undetected. Sam turns to face him and the motion has Rafe crowded against the wall to avoid their bodies touching, and he realizes how small the cubicle actually is. Sam must have noticed too, because the silence hanging between them seems heavier, Rafe’s breath a little bated in his throat as he finds he can’t look away this time. Maybe he just doesn’t want to. Sam’s not looking away, and Rafe allows himself to momentarily fantasize that he hasn’t read the signs wrong at all, that Sam thinks about him the same way he’s thought about Sam… but it’s a bad idea and he knows it. This has to stay professional. He has to shut the thought down and do it fast. “The shape. Looks good on you.”

A little smile tugs at Sam’s lips. It’s contented, and something else. Playful, maybe. “If you like how they look, I’ll get them.”

The connotations of that are almost too much to handle. Rafe grits his teeth to keep himself from saying something he shouldn’t and forces himself to avert his eyes, catching sight of his reflection and realizing how flustered he is. Pathetic. He’s so angry at his lack of self-control with Sam – he steps further back, pressing himself into the wall to put as much distance between them as he can. God, how he wants to kiss that stupid look off his face.

But he mustn’t. He mustn’t. He repeats it in his own head like a mantra, and as if by sheer willpower alone, Sam steps back a little at last, turning his attention back to his own reflection. Rafe hates how he immediately misses the closeness.

“I don’t know though,” Sam says doubtingly, and Rafe swears he’s tugging the waistband on the jeans down on purpose. But that would be ridiculous. Still, his eyes trail down to where Sam’s thumbs are hooked into the denim, throat dry as he tries to swallow. He doesn’t meet Sam’s eyes again, just in case. “The other ones were comfortable…”

“Get both,” Rafe snaps slightly. “It’s not like you can get by with a single pair of jeans.”

He pulls the curtain back, feeling suffocated in the enclosed space. As he steps out he glances back in time to catch sight of the smirk on Sam’s lips, satisfied with Rafe’s reaction, but Rafe is sure he’s only seeing what he wants to see. He lets the curtain drop again behind him and squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing at the bridge of his known. He can feel a headache coming on, probably from how tightly clenched he’s been holding his jaw. Goddammit.

 

  
It’s already past two by the time Sam’s finally chosen the rest of his wardrobe. Rafe can see him eyeing the till, biting his nails and trying not to watch as the cost increases in hundred dollar increments every time the teller rings another item through. He can’t seem to stand still, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Part of Rafe wants to ask if he’s okay, but he knows what answer he’ll get and he doesn’t want to get back into the money thing again. Instead he leans his elbows on the counter, idly checking his emails. With a little distance between them, he’s breathing easier, content in the knowledge that he didn’t give in to temptation this time.

“That’s a whole lot of money for some clothes,” Sam sniffs as the final item goes through, bringing the total close to two thousand dollars. He casts a look at Rafe expectantly, but Rafe doesn’t rise to the comment. He’s not convinced Sam isn’t trying to rile him up on purpose, like he was in the changing room.

“As long as you’ve got something to wear,” He says dismissively, turning his attention to the teller. He slides the bag in his hand over to her as well. “Have it sent back to the house.”

“Of course,” The girl says politely, but Rafe can tell she’s a little nervous to be serving him. He recognizes her – must have served him the last time he was in – but he’s never bothered learning her name. He can’t be expected to know every employee working for his company. “Was there anything else you needed, Mr. Adler?”

He’s about to tell her that’s everything, but Sam interrupts, shooting the girl a flirtatious smile that rubs Rafe the wrong way. He reminds himself again to let it go. Not his problem, or his business. “Mind if I grab a few things to throw on now, sweetheart? Can I do that?”

She looks back at Sam like he’s just offered her a million bucks. “Sure you can, Mr. …uh?”

“Sam,” He says, smile growing wider as he winks at her. His eyes drag down to her chest, across to her name badge. “Just Sam. Nice to meet you… Emily.”

Rafe’s skin crawls. Their moment in the changing room meant nothing. Of course it didn’t. He was over-reading it, like he over-reads everything. Why is it affecting him so badly? He wants to kick the counter at full force, maybe hurl the cash register against the wall, but instead he swallows the anger and lets it scathe his insides until it burns out. He forces a smile as Sam picks out one of the bags and thanks the cashier as she points out the nearest place he can change. Not his business.

The anger is still bubbling in his chest when Sam emerges from the cubicle again, Rafe’s clothes in hand, fully dressed in his own clothes for the first time since they arrived in New York.

Fuck, he’s wearing the tight jeans. Rafe is frustrated by the sight of them, annoyed by the way the sight of the other man makes him feel, but suddenly Sam looks himself again and it almost makes Rafe’s heart stop, and his anger ebbs away faster than it arrived. He’s got a black t-shirt and a pair of leather boots on, and he’s shrugging on the jacket Rafe picked up for him. It’s not really in style, denim with a sheepskin lining, but it looked so much like something Sam would have worn way back when they first met Rafe couldn’t pass it by without at least offering it to him to try.

“How do I look?” Sam says, tugging at his sleeves.

There’s so much he could say. Rafe wants to tell Sam how good he looks, wants to shove him back into that cubicle and tell him how mad he makes him, how much he wants to tear all those clothes right back off him. He’s not going to. He’s got to find something else to say instead, and as he opens his mouth he knows the next words out of it are probably not going to be nice.

“Like you didn’t just waste half my afternoon picking jeans. Can we go?”

His words are sharper than he means them to be, and for a second Sam’s face falters, but before Rafe can feel bad about it Sam’s smiling again, elbowing him in the side. “Alright, grumpy. Don’t forget that shopping was your idea, not mine. Can we get a bite to eat or something? I think there’s a little deli place near here I used to go to, I want to see if it’s still open.”

They drop the bag back at the counter and Rafe doesn’t stay to hear Sam flirt with the cashier again, leaving as quickly as he can. The older man lingers for a moment before he catches up, eyeing Rafe suspiciously. “What?”

“So you’ve got like… a tab with this place, or something?”

He’s more than aware of how pretentious Sam finds the store. He’s still not going to rise to it. “No, Samuel. I own it.”

“This is what your company does?” Sam laughs, looking around the shop like he hasn’t noticed Rafe’s attitude at all. Rafe lets his expression soften; the older man doesn’t deserve his snark; he just has a little trouble stopping himself from time to time. “I thought you worked in shipping or something.”

“ _They_ do. Among many other things,” Rafe says. He hates to think of it as his job, his life. It’s his father’s life really. For all of his work within the company, Rafe’s never had any real say. “Logistics, chain stores, pharmaceuticals… my father has most markets covered.”

“Sounds dull.” Sam grins a little, stepping out of the store into the brisk fall air. “I’ll be honest, I’d choose treasure hunting over business any day.”

Rafe sighs, silently agreeing with him as he follows him out. So would he, given the choice. He’s not looking forward to his meeting, not when he could be enjoying New York City with Sam. Or back at the house, researching Christopher Condent. Anything would be better than work right now.

“Let’s go find your deli,” he says, falling in step beside Sam. “But it’ll have to be quick, I’ve got a meeting.”

 

Lunch is not quick. The deli is gone, and after much deliberation and a few forlorn looks from Sam, they catch a cab up to another place he’d been really fond of, which is thankfully still thriving. Despite the tiny little Italian place looking rough as hell on the outside, even Rafe has to admit the food is good. It’s called Gino’s and they do take out, but Sam convinces him to sit in, promising it’s worth it, so they do. The décor hasn’t changed in twenty years, if the cracks in the brickwork are anything to go by, but the flaky paint and sagging linoleum floor don’t detract anything from the dishes they’re served, and don’t account for good company.

And Sam loves that it hasn’t changed.

Everything is exactly how he remembers it, he tells Rafe adamantly – even the menu, and the manager’s retired but the chef still remembers him from all those years ago. Rafe’s never eaten anywhere like it and he’s caught up in the excitement as Sam chats to the staff like he saw them yesterday. He forgets to check his watch as Sam scours the walls for an old picture of himself, eyes shining with childish glee as he points it out.

“Here, this one's me!” Sam says, leaning over his spinach cannelloni to pull the frame off the wall. “With Gino – that’s the guy who owned the place.”

He holds the picture out for Rafe, who quickly stuffs another bite of garlic focaccia into his mouth and wipes his greasy fingers before he takes it.

“Look at you,” he says teasingly, clearing a little dust off the picture to get a better look. Sam’s hair is much shorter, flopping forwards instead of being pushed all the way back, a huge grin plastered on his face, arm around the old man’s shoulders and even in the faded photograph his hazel eyes are brimming with the same light that caught Rafe’s attention in the first place. It’s what drew him to Sam, like a beacon in a crowd, the catalyst for every moment of his life since. His time with the Drake brothers back then – fresh out of Yale, looking to make something of himself – was the happiest Rafe can remember ever being, and his first taste of adventure with Sam and Nate started a lifetime of obsession. He’s got few regrets about what he’s done since. Before he can stop himself, Rafe’s asking the only question he knows he shouldn’t. “Where’s Nate?”

“Nathan – oh.” Sam falters. He takes the frame back and looks at it for a long while in silence before he goes on, and when he speaks again, he sounds a little sad. “You know, we weren’t always together. I spent a while on my own in New York when he was… he was working other jobs. Without me.”

“I always figured you two were inseparable,” Rafe says, with genuine surprise. Sam had been alone when they’d first met, but he’d never done anything but talk good things about his little brother back then. It was as though he worshipped the ground Nate walked on.

“Not quite,” Sam sighs, shrugging his shoulders like he’s suddenly very tired. Even as he musters a smile again Rafe can’t help but feel a little bad; at least Sam doesn’t seem to want to talk about Nate anymore than he does, so Rafe doesn’t have to find a way to avoid talking about why he doesn’t want to see him anytime soon. He can’t imagine that the truth about his fallout with Nate is something Sam would take well. “Mostly we were, but things happen… you know. I’ll be right back – just gonna hit the restroom.”

Before Rafe can push for more, Sam’s up and away, leaving the photograph on the table. Rafe slides it back over and looks at it closer, finger brushing across the dusty frame as he relishes the rare glance back into his friend’s life before they met. Sam had never told him much, not beyond retelling the thrilling – and surely greatly exaggerated – stories of the adventures him and Nate had shared.

As he goes to hang it back on the wall, Rafe feels the urge to take the photograph out of the frame and slip it into his pocket.

He doesn’t want to let it go, not when it’s his first real glimpse into Sam’s past, but the fact it’s in the deli at all seems almost too important in itself. After a moment of deliberation, he pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of the photograph before he hooks the frame back up in its rightful place. It’s not the same, but the sight of Sam on his phone screen puts a smile on his face. Then the time catches his eye.

“Fuck,” Rafe mutters to himself, huffing as he twists in his seat to beckon over the waiter. “Hey, could we get the check?”

When Sam returns, he’s already paid and getting up from his seat. He waits for Sam to stuff the rest of his lunch into a box, still eating with a plastic fork as they leave, waving goodbye to the deli staff with promises of returning soon.

“What’s the rush?”

“Meeting,” Rafe growls through gritted teeth, stressed more by the prospect of abandoning their lunch. He’d been having a good time and the idea of having a long and lazy lunch with Sam in a place that means a lot to him is far more appealing than hashing out a business deal he doesn’t care about with people who are only going to make him angry. A bristle of nerves up the back of his neck makes him feel nauseous. “I’m already late.”

 

Twenty-eight minutes late, in fact. As they enter the Adler Global offices, Rafe doesn’t stop to greet anyone, marching to the elevators with Sam flagging behind. He sighs heavily as they have to wait for one to arrive, glaring at anyone who even comes close enough to start a conversation with them. No one tries. He doesn’t think he could handle small talk, and Sam seems to get the message too, because he stays quiet until they’re alone.

“Are you alright?” He asks as the elevator carries them up to the twenty third floor.

Rafe eyes him and exhales a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding in. “Just tense. Work stuff, nothing interesting.”

 _Sorry_ , he adds silently. Being dragged to the office isn’t the sort of day out in New York Rafe wanted to offer Sam and he’s sure Sam would rather be doing anything else. But suddenly there’s a hand on his shoulder, squeezing sympathetically, and he doesn’t need to look to know the kindness he’d find on Sam’s face. Rafe leans in to the touch, eyes closing as he allows himself the small comfort – there’s no shame in needing it, if it’s offered without asking.

“Let’s get smashed tonight,” Sam decides, after several moments of comfortable silence. “Why not? It’s been a long time since I got really, really drunk.”

Rafe laughs abruptly, and he’s going to ask Sam what the hell brought that thought about but the idea is so appealing, it’s already easing his mind. “Why not?” He repeats, coy smile curling onto his face. “I’ve got nothing to do tomorrow.”

As they arrive at his office, he’s feeling remarkably calmer. Rafe wants to ask how Sam always seems to manage to do that, but it’ll have to wait.

“I won’t be long,” He says to Sam, half-waving at his secretary as he passes. “Just sit out here. Angie can get you coffee if you want.”

Sam pats his shoulder playfully.

“Don’t sweat it,” He grins, dropping onto the couch in the waiting area and making himself comfortable. He shrugs off his jacket, tucking his arms behind his head like he’s settling in for the long run despite Rafe’s promise. It’s probably a good idea. Getting this over quickly is very optimistic. “I’m sure you’ll kill it in there.”

Shooting him a fleeting smile, Rafe stops at the secretary’s desk and taps the wood to get her attention. “Angie. Folder, please?”

“You’re late, Rafe.” She raises an eyebrow at him as she hands the meeting notes over. Normally Rafe would say something about her attitude, but she’s right. She’s probably been placating the board for the last half hour in his absence. He doesn’t give the poor girl enough recognition for how much she puts up with for him. With an utter of thanks, he heads into the meeting room, feeling the heaviness settling over his chest again.

Working for his father is an anchor around to his ankle. No matter how hard Rafe swims, he’s never going get further than that chain allows, never going to reach the shore and any attempts to swim out to sea are only going to drag him deeper. It’s all he can do to keep his head above water.

At least it’s steady. The anchor means he’ll never be swept away by the current, but does he not want that? Does he not want to face impossible odds, to be given the chance to overcome them? As he sits at the head of the long table, listening to members of the board argue like wild animals over the business proposal, Rafe feels like drowning. He could give up on all of this, he thinks. Run away somewhere, start over. There’s nothing he likes more than being somewhere no one knows his name, where no one treats him like a prince just for being a rich man.

They all want something, that’s all it is. Money doesn’t demand respect, it makes people ugly. Brings out the worst in them. They either want it, willing to do anything to get it, or they have it and they think they’re better than everyone else. Even the ones who give it away are doing it for the self-satisfaction of looking better than the people who don’t have enough to give. Rafe knows, he’s tried charity. It’s even more self-serving than just accepting his wealth for what it is. He watches the other men argue their cases with little interest, wondering what it is that each of them want. What drives them to get up in the morning? Is any of it worth it? He doubts it. But at least they have drive at all. They all have homes, families. Probably dream of a condo by the beach and a boat in the future. Small-minded aspirations must be nice. Must be easy. Rafe knows he doesn’t deserve to be sat at the head of this table with these men - they’re nothing alike, in dreams or in drive. He did nothing to be here. He knows they all hate him too, hate him for getting to sit with them and have his say just for being the son of the great Marcus Adler.

He hates it too. They wouldn’t believe him if he said it.

If money wasn’t so important in going after what he wanted, he’d happily give it all up… but he’s never going to get anywhere without it. Perhaps it’s not the job that’s an anchor after all. Perhaps it’s that. If he didn’t have the money, he wouldn’t have Sam. Wouldn’t have anything. He hates it, but it’s what makes him who he is.

“Rafe.”

The man who’s calling for his attention is called Mahir. He’s one of their investors, in his late fifties, one of his father’s oldest associates. He’s got four kids and a wife in Dubai and he flies out to New York for three weeks out of every month to dips his fingers in all the different business honey pots and screw some Broadway actress called Talia or Tasha or something. Rafe knows, because every man in that room gets loose lips when they’re drinking. They’re all so proud of their petty lives. It’s disgusting.

“Hmm?” Rafe feigns like he was listening, and they seem to buy it. He turns the question back on Mahir, because he has no idea what they’re asking of him. “Well, what’s your take on it?”

“I think we should buy in.” Mahir says firmly, but Rafe can tell he’s sweating under the pressure of voicing his opinion. “What’s the risk? This Russian oil business, it’s no problem to us.”

This sets them off arguing again and Rafe kicks back in his seat, barely listening. He hopes Sam isn’t too bored waiting for him. The meeting should wrap up soon and he’s already decided what he’s going to do. He’s going to take the risk. Mahir is wrong – the Russian business is their problem, but Rafe doesn’t really care. Saying no is only going to drag the meeting out longer and he’s fed up of listening to them.

Once it’s done Rafe leaves them in the room, arguing over his decision. His headache has returned with full force and he’s trying not to think about the consequences of what he’s just done – it’s probably going to mean masses of paperwork and weeks of emails but right now all he wants is to get back home and have that drink Sam was talking about. It’s been too long since he was last able to kick it and unwind.

Sam’s not on the couch when he rounds the corner. Rafe doesn’t see him at first for the gaggle of women around him, but he’s sat on the edge of Angie’s desk with his legs crossed, telling a story that they’re all hanging on to.

God, they’re all looking at him like the damn cashier had. Like Vera had. What is it about Sam that has people fawning over him so much? That has Rafe fawning over him? He looks the older man over; the way he’s leaning so casually on his knees, that easy smile fixed on his handsome face, his voice soft even to such a large crowd, and Rafe feels a familiar anger bubble in his chest again. His own presence wholly ignored even by Sam, this time he doesn’t swallow the rage, violently clearing his throat to announce his entrance.

“I’m sure you all have work to be doing.”

From their reaction, he may as well have told them all they were getting fired. Two of the women back off immediately, excusing themselves and – hopefully – returning to their desks. Another Rafe recognizes as a girl from IT, meaning she’s come more than ten floors up the building to be here. She apologizes, looking like a kicked puppy as she says goodbye. Angie’s looking sheepish too, quickly busying herself with paperwork and flustering.

“You took forever,” Sam says, smile growing into a smirk as he finally catches Rafe’s eye. “We were just keeping ourselves entertained.”

Rafe chooses to ignore that, but he can’t ignore the hammering in his chest. Sam’s flirting is going to be the death of him – he’s so angry, but he’s angry at himself more than anything, because he should be able to get past this. It’s not allowed to make him this frustrated. This jealous.

“It’s late,” Rafe snaps, looking anywhere but at Sam. He doesn’t want to see that stupid smug grin right now. “We need to go.”

As he hands Angie the meeting folder, Sam slides off the desk. Rafe ignores the brush of his body against his side the best he can, still stubbornly refusing to look at him. He turns on his heel and walks away without another word – because what is there to say? Opening his mouth right now could be disastrous. He wants that drink right now. But not with Sam. He’d rather lock himself in his office at home and be alone for as long as it takes to get over whatever this is. As he calls the elevator, Rafe doesn’t look back to see if Sam’s following. As the doors open, he sees Sam’s reflection in the mirrored walls fall in line with his as they step inside.

The ride down drags, and the mirrors provide no respite from Sam, who seems more than happy with himself for how the afternoon has panned out. It’s only once Rafe can’t take the sight of his smirk anymore that he says anything at all.

“What?”

His bitterness only kindles the smug look. “I see you’re still just as good with the ladies as you ever were,” Sam says playfully. “I’ve never seen a group of women scatter that fast.”

“Those were _employees_ , and they should have been working.”

“They’re also people,” Sam laughs, nudging his elbow into Rafe’s side. His smile is encouraging, but it does nothing to lift Rafe’s mood. “Come on, lighten up. Did your meeting really go that badly?”

Rafe draws in a shaky breath, praying for the strength not to lash out at Sam. He doesn’t deserve that – Rafe knows this problem is his alone – but god, is he testing him right now. If Rafe could just bury the jealousy, everything would be fine.

“Oh, shut up.” He tries to smile back, but he feels like he’s suffocating.

 

The drive back to Long Island is slow in the rush hour traffic, and the sun sets before they make it over the East River. Rafe wants to be grateful for the silence that falls over them, but it’s more like a stranglehold over the car. Sam spends most of the journey staring out of the window, his playfulness draining away with every minute Rafe’s mood lingers.

Rafe wants to apologize, but he’s still not recovered and he’s just not good with these things. Sam understands that – surely he does, they know each other well enough. But the quiet paves the way for Rafe’s worries to take hold, and in an effort to distract himself from Sam he ends up thinking about the risk he’s just taken with the business, and Nadine’s demands, and his head feels heavy with the stress of it all. Sleep would be welcome right now. Perhaps a long bath, and most of a bottle of scotch. As his anger ebbs away into melancholy, he finds he can’t say anything at all, even when Sam switches the radio over in the opening bars of one of Rafe’s favourite songs.

Sam doesn’t seem to have anything to say either, smoking out of the open window silently. It’s not until they pull back through the gates of his house and straight past the front door that Sam perks up at all. Rafe thinks nothing of it as he buzzes the shutter door open, taking the ramp down into the underground parking garage, but suddenly Sam’s face is lit up again.

“Whoa,” He mutters as the lights spark into life. “I did not know this was here.”

“Where did you think I kept my cars?” Rafe sniffs, pulling the Porsche into an empty space.

Sam laughs in disbelief, shaking his head as he looks around. “Cars,” he repeats teasingly. “Because everyone has this many. What are you, a Bond villain?”

“I’m not going to justify that with a response.” Rafe casts one more look at Sam before he gets out. Seeing the other man’s excitement is easing his bad mood; part of Rafe wants to fight to keep it up because he’s not used to letting things go, but at least it’s better than silence. He can be moody later, when he’s on his own.

“Seriously though,” Sam says as he shuts the passenger door. “How do you even decide which one to drive?”

A smile tugs at Rafe’s lips and he doesn’t stop it. “With difficulty. Depends where I’m going.”

In his defense, there are two chauffeured cars among them. The Bentley and the Maybach are usually used for business, particularly when he has to pick up a client. The Lamborghini Murciélago is his favourite, a car built for speed, but it’s not the best for long trips so he’s got a Mitsubishi for city journeys and a Range Rover for everything else.

“This is ridiculous,” Sam says, walking through the cars. “You have a gold Lamborghini. And yet, no Aston Martin? I’m disappointed.”

“Didn’t know you were a car guy,” Rafe smirks, leaning against the side of the Range Rover, his eyes firmly fixed on Sam as the older man looks through the car windows excitedly. It’s nice to let the tension fizzle up even if the issue isn’t solved. Perhaps they can have that drink after all.

He’d always thought of Sam as more of a motorbike guy – in fact, he knows he is – and Rafe’s about to mention his own bike, tucked away neatly under a dust cover at the back of the garage but Sam interrupts him with the one thing he really doesn’t want to hear.

“I’m not, but I can see you are. You have a Rolls Royce, for crying out loud.”

Rafe does not own a Rolls Royce.

As Sam comes back to where he’s stood, dread washes Rafe like a wave. There’s only one reason there’d be a Rolls Royce in his garage. How had he not noticed it before? The beast of a machine glares at him out of the corner of the garage, every bit as threatening as the man who drives it.

“Hey,” Sam says softly. “Sorry about earlier. You’re really easy to rile up, you know.”

“Huh?” Rafe can feel his head going into meltdown. That call earlier – he should have answered it. Fuck, when did Sam get so close? He’s standing right before him, and Rafe’s very aware of how much smaller he is than Sam, staring up at the older man, wondering what he’s doing. They stand like that in sudden silence, and Sam’s staring down at him like he’s searching for something. For what, Rafe has no idea. He can’t even think straight, his mind is a mess, because he has no idea what Sam’s thinking, or why that car is here.

Whatever’s on Sam’s mind, Rafe doesn’t get the chance to decipher it because suddenly he’s being pushed against the car, an arm snaking around his waist as Sam draws him in, and then he’s being kissed.

At first he can’t even react, but his hands find their way to the back of Sam’s jacket, clutching him closer, and Rafe can taste stale cigarettes but he doesn’t care. He kisses back and it’s sloppy and rough and perfect, and for a moment everything else melts away and the whole world revolves around Sam. He is the axis the whole universe revolves around. For just a moment, Sam is the only think Rafe can taste, and feel, and think about and he loses himself in the other man’s lips as a hand slides into his short hair, pulling him closer. He doesn’t know why it’s happening. He doesn’t care.

The sound of his phone ringing wrenches them apart. A few strands of Rafe’s hair fall in front of his eyes and when he brushes them away Sam’s still looking at him, cheeks a little warm and lips parted like he wants to say something but he doesn’t know what.

Rafe feels the back of his neck burning and he doesn’t want to tear his eyes away but his phone is ringing incessantly. He wants to hurl it across the room and kiss Sam again, try to take back their stolen moment. He’s a grown man and this shouldn’t be a problem.

“You gonna get that?” Sam teases, his voice low and husky and a satisfied smirk plastered across his face. He looks so pleased with himself – it gives Rafe hope that the kiss isn’t a one time affair.

But Rafe can’t find it in him to smile. He glances at the phone, confirming his suspicions. “Not right now,” he says dryly, his voice small, face taut with frustration. He glances at the Rolls Royce again. He knows what it means - his father is in the house. The dread settles in once more and Rafe has to lean back against the car to steady himself, his mind racing with all the reasons might be here. “Excuse me – I’ve got to-“

He doesn’t finish what he’s saying, sliding out from between Sam and the car. This is not good. There’s no way this can be good. He shoots the older man one fleeting smile before he takes off up the stairs to find out what the hell is going on. As he does, the only thought that crosses Rafe’s mind is that it had to be now. Of course it did.

Nothing good has ever happened to him without something going horribly wrong.


End file.
